


Old Flowers, Fresh Wounds

by circopoi (cicadabug), nicpic



Category: Disco Elysium (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Physical Abuse, M/M, POV Alternating, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Pining, Post-Canon, abusive!harry pre-martinaise, jeangst, on thin fucking ice!Harry post-martinaise, the boys are not good :(
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:34:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27022840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cicadabug/pseuds/circopoi, https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicpic/pseuds/nicpic
Summary: The crackfic that turned serious and super fucking long: Jean starts visiting a homo-sexual bar, feeling uncomfortable drinking with the 41st without Harry and unwilling to be seen drinking alone. He’s dragged into a bar fight his first night there, as one does, and captures the hearts of Montmartre Square, Jamrock’s very own homo-sexual capital.When shit hits the fan, Harry will be forced to face his demons, and Jean will be forced to release them.
Relationships: Harry Du Bois & Jean Vicquemare, Harry Du Bois/Jean Vicquemare, Harry Du Bois/Kim Kitsuragi/Jean Vicquemare, Kim Kitsuragi & Jean Vicquemare
Comments: 15
Kudos: 33





	1. Nouveau

**Jean-Heron Vicquemare**

Blue fades to gray into orange. Stars begin to unveil themselves in the darkening sky, an aerostatic amongst them: a man-made luster glimmering within celestial bodies of unimaginable half-light. You hear a few distant barks; the Valley of Dogs begins to revv up. Montmartre Square, the bustling gathering-place for mysteries and degenerates, glows invitingly as you step closer.

A neon pink sign reading “ _Mien”_ catches your eye. A few bits of graffito adorn the front, but otherwise, the establishment looks clean, well-run. Darkly tinted windows obscure the inside, but you can faintly make out a dimly lit bar, with a few men drinking and talking within. It isn’t too big, and it looks nice enough. Most importantly, it is somewhere no one else at Precinct 41 would be caught dead in. You step in.

A bell jingles. The men look up at you, wary of a new face. You silently catalogue your clothing; a black, long-sleeve oxford shirt, matching your dark hair, a few buttons undone at the top, and a nice pair of brown trousers paired with ankle height brown leather boots. Nothing to give away that you’re an officer of the RCM. You quickly stride to the left edge of the bar and sit, ignoring the eyes on you.

A svelte, brown-haired, green-eyed bartender dressed impeccably in a navy vest and white shirt approaches you. Half Mesque, half Occidental. He seems in his early 30s: around your age, a certain intelligence glistening in his eyes. He would either make an excellent witness or an elusive one. “Welcome to the _Mien,_ monsieur,” he purrs. You hide a wince. “Ignore the other degenerates; they’re just shy.”

“Shut up, Kostas,” grumbles a voice behind you. Still, tension you were painfully aware of begins to slip out of the room. Latent chatter fills the background again. You sigh in relief.

“What may I get you, monsieur?” The man, Kostas you suppose, begins idly running a delicate finger around the rim of a shot glass. An approving eye flits over your broad shoulders, lingering on the divot of your collarbone.

“A beer, and then we’ll see.” 

Kostas raises an eyebrow. His finger halts. “...Do you have a preference?”

You grunt. “Whatever is cheapest and get me drunk the fastest.”

He nods. “Yes, we can do that for you. One reál per pint.” You slide some bills onto the wood surface of the bar. Kostas goes and fills a glass full of amber liquid and places it in front of you. It’s exceedingly bitter and tasteless. You down half of it in one go.

“So,” the man leans on the counter. “What brings you here, Monsieur-?” He waits for a response.

“All you need to know, Mr. Kostas, is when I want the next drink.” You take another gulp.

Kostas smiles and flutters his eyelashes. You stare into your glass. “Is that so? If you won’t bless me with your name, then perhaps a _nom de guerre_ . We are not very picky, here at the _Mien._ ” 

You consider his words. “ _Myosotis_ ,” you finally decide.

The bartender perks up. “Forget-me-nots. They suit you.”

“Yes, well. They should, considering everything,” you bitterly mutter into your glass. 

Kostas glances at you sideways, awaiting an explanation. It does not come. “...I’ll top you off, _Myo_.” You wordlessly let him take your pint. His fingers brush against yours.

You sigh. It’s gonna be a long fucking night.

. . .

It’s getting late. You are past pleasantly buzzed, straight into fucking wasted. Each sordid hour has steadily filled the room with more men and more smoke; filtering sluggishly through the neon lights and ethanol humming warmly in your head. You clumsily slap another reál onto the counter. Kostas shoots you a worried glance. You ignore him and rub a calloused fist into your right eye. The room still doesn’t stop spinning.

At some point you rolled up your sleeves, revealing your forearms, wired with scar tissue and muscle. A good section of patrons have been looking consideringly in your way, since.

Kostas picks at the bill on the table. “If you don’t mind me asking, _Myo_ , how are you getting home tonight?” He doesn’t refill your glass.

“I’ll walk.” You idly tap on the bar surface.

“Is it far?”

It’s an hour walk. Half if you run. “Around thirty minutes,” you mumble. Your voice has become especially gravelly, this late at night. You set aside the glass, but leave the money on the table.

His brows draw up. “I can call a cab when you leave. On the house.” He jerks a thumb to the phonebox installed behind the counter. It looks like it has seen some use.

You lean your chin on a propped up palm. You try to smile, but the hand pressing into your face turns it into a smirk. “I can handle myself fine, but thanks, Kostas, for offering.” The man seems starstruck, staring unabashedly at your quirked lips. You hurriedly get rid of the expression and drag a hand down your face. Fuck.

Behind you, you hear several raised voices and the scuffling of bar furniture. You take a quick look over your shoulder. “Dolores Dei,” Kostas grumbles. Two men, one of medium height and stocky, Oranje by the look of the birthmarks on his face, and another, less built but taller and Semenese. The former seems to be the aggressor. You turn away. As long as it’s just yelling, and not a bar fight.

A dull slap of knuckles on skin. You sigh.

“Hey!” Kostas scrambles out from behind the bar. “Calm the fuck down, Andrus. I told you that I’d kick you out the next time you start a fight in the _Mien._ ” The room rumbles with drunken interest.

“Fuck you, Kostas. As if you fucking could.” Whispers spread throughout the room. You laboriously turn again. It seems Andrus, the Oranjese man, has spit in Kostas’s face.

“What— I don’t—” Kostas stutters, hands trembling over his face. You place a heel on the floor and test your weight. A bit unsteady, but it’ll be fine. God, you shouldn’t have drunk so much.

“Huh, are you going to fucking say something, Kostas?” The bartender opens his mouth. “Shut the fuck up.” A collective intake of breath as Andrus draws back his fist, about the strike.

Too little time for much else. You grab Kostas’s bicep and yank him backwards as a fist collides with your left jaw. Fuck. That fucking stings. You stumble backwards a few steps, but don’t fall over. You rub your face with your free hand, other still in a vice-like grip around the bartender’s arm. A hush falls in the room. 

“And who the fuck are you, shithead,” the man spits. You don’t answer and instead turn to Kostas. He’s staring at you, wide-eyed. You fish out a light blue cotton handkerchief from your back pocket and offer it to him. When he remains frozen, you let out a tired breath and begin cleaning his face yourself. “What the fuck’re you fucking doing, jackass?!” Andrus yells.

“Cleaning up your mess, fucker,” you growl. “What is this, primary school?” A few whistles and hoots scatter across the room. You continue dabbing at Kostas’s face until it looks clean. You push the handkerchief into his hand, whisper, “You can keep it,” and then turn back to the Oranjese man. “Alright, let’s fucking do this.” You roll your shoulders, crack your knuckles, then widen your stance.

“Fuck you,” the man screams, charging towards you. God, this is so fucking easy. A redirected hit, a solid hit to the shin, and the weight of two bodies slamming into the rickety floorboards of the bar, your knee pressing imperiously into the small of the other man’s back. You see a few splinters drawing blood from the man’s cheeks, darkening into black in the wood below.

He lets out a pathetic whine and bucks against your hold. You’ve fucking dealt with Mazda’s gang before and survived; this guy is a fucking nobody. 

“So,” you snarl, “you’re going to apologize to the good bartender.” You glance up at Kostas. The starstruck expression is back. Shit. He clutches your handkerchief as if it is some pre-Dolorian relic. “And you’re going to fucking leave and never come back. Got it?” You press harder into the back of the man below for good measure.

“Fuck, okay, okay! I’m sorry, fuck!” Andrus nods his head frantically, eyes blown wide. You take a second to judge him; it seems genuine enough, for a piece of shit like him. You release him and let him get back up. He stumbles. “Fuck you guys,” the man mutters before doggedly staggering out of the door. Thank fuck that’s over. You turn to Kostas.

He’s staring at you. The entire bar is staring at you. You sheepishly jam both hands into your pockets. You cough. The room tilts a bit. Fuck, how much did you fucking drink. “...Sorry about that. I’ll go—”

“No, no, no.” Kostas springs to attention. “No, good monsieur. Just, ah, just wait here a moment. Please, stay.” He rushes into the backroom. Hushed whispers kick up around you, poorly concealed glances shooting your way. You awkwardly stand in the middle of the bar.

Kostas comes back with a cold compress in his hand. He presses it into your jaw, then you take over. “Thank you, monsieur. I would hire a bouncer, but the _Mien_ is a bit short on cash at the moment. I’m sorry you had to deal with it.”

“No problem, Kostas.” You sigh. “It was nothing.”

“Nothing?” Kostas bursts into laughter. “ _Myo_ , you fucking piledrived a 200 pound man into the ground without breaking a sweat!” His voice climbs with incredulity.

“It’s easy once you know what you’re doing.” The room continues to look on in interest. You fidget.

“Anyways,” you mutter. “I was about to leave, before all this.” You attempt to hand the cold compress back, but he simply presses it back on your face. “Thank you for the drinks.”

Kostas scoffs. “No need. You paid for them, _Myo_.” You nod. You turn to leave. He hurriedly grabs your elbow. “Wait. You shouldn’t— you can’t come back, for at least a week. Andrus has a lot of… ‘friends.’ They might come back for revenge.” He seems sorry to say so. You nod in understanding, gently unentangle yourself from his grasp, then step out the door. The bell jingles. A playful voice calls out behind you. “Thank you for visiting the _Mien,_ monsieur. I hope you had a good stay!”

The night air is warm. Lights reflect luminous off of the cobblestone streets.

You did have a good stay. You suppose you’ll come back tomorrow.

. . .

  
  


**Harrier Du Bois**

Jean came in with a painful looking bruise on his jaw this morning. Contradictorily, he seemed to be in a good mood, of all fucking things. He’s currently sitting at his desk, humming quietly. He looks content. It’s *terrifying.*

Judit taps his shoulder. “Um, Vic.” She was the only one brave enough to approach him. You, Kim, McCoy, and McLaine crouch behind a desk, across the room, pretending not to watch. As McCoy put it, “I saw the fucker smile at me this morning, and that’s the scariest goddamn shit that has ever happened to me over my decorated years as a RCM officer.”

Jean swivels in his chair. “Yeah, what is it, Judit?”

“Uh.” She waves a hand at her jaw. “Did something happen last night?”

“Hm, yeah. I was on patrol and got into a scuffle. The guy ran away before I could ID him.” All of you know for a fact that Sundance was on patrol last night, not Jean.

“Oh. I see,” a hint of alarm just barely contained. Judit retreats and walks toward you all, panic making each step a little jilted. 

“What the fuck?!” McLaine furiously whispers. “What the fuck is wrong with him today?!”

“That fucking shithead hasn’t been this happy since, well,” McCoy glances at you. “Nevermind.”

Kim sighs. “It is not our job to investigate the officer’s mood. Perhaps it is a good omen.”

Every other member in the group shakes their head gravely. Judit murmurs, “Everytime Jean is happy, fate steps in to course correct. And it always overcompensates.” McCoy and McLaine grunt in agreement.

You nod. This feels accurate. “So,” you whisper. “What do we think happened? I personally think he got involved in a sexy drug-induced crime of passion.” All the officers present raise an eyebrow at you.

“Vic wouldn’t get high,” Judit mutters.

McLaine gestures angrily at Jean. “Look at him! There’s no way he’s this fucking happy without being on something.”

“Our boy has finally snapped,” McCoy chuckles. “He’s finally gonna murder Harry, once and for all.”

“Shut up, McCoy,” you grumble. “...Wait, you think that’s actually gonna happen.”

He levels a gaze at you. Silently. You gulp.

Kim stands. “Let’s stop gossiping like children and go do our work, officers.” A mutter of discontent from the men, but the group begins to disperse.

You grab Kim’s offered hand and haul yourself up. “What do you think, Kim? Do you think it was a sexy drug crime of passion?”

“No, detective. I do *not* think it was a sexy drug crime of passion. Now, we have paperwork to fill out.” You look at Kim. He’s still studying Jean, eyebrow raised and lips stretched into a slight frown. Despite himself, he is curious. Concerned, maybe.

The Satellite-Officer stands from his desk and heads to the men’s washroom, passing by the two of you as he does so. You turn to leave, but then Jean stops: frozen in front of your partner.

He’s stopped breathing, good mood vanished into thin air. “...Lieutenant,” he says. His eyes are fixated on a spot over Kim’s right ear. You follow his gaze, and notice a bit of mottled skin peeking out between strands of hair. Jean’s eyes dart towards you. Panicked? Scared? Either way, not good. He coughs, repeats himself. “Lieutenant, you seem to have been hit in the head.”

Huh. This is weird. Still, you berate yourself for not noticing the bruise earlier.

“Yes,” Kim mutters. The tips of his ears turn pink. “I… hit my head on the door of my Kineema this morning. It is nothing.” He’s telling the truth.

Jean just stares at him, expression unreadable. You fidget. This is really fucking wierd. 

Finally, he speaks. “Follow me to the Lazareth, Kitsuragi. We should have that checked out.”

“Very well, officer.” Kim doesn’t actually think it needs to be checked out. He only agreed because this is *really goddamn weird.*

You pipe up. “I’ll—”

“No,” Jean cuts you off. He doesn’t even look at you. “You have work to do, shitkid. You’ll fucking stay here.” He takes a deep breath, steadying himself. “Let’s go, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, let’s.” Kim sends you one last confused look before jogging after the Satellite-Officer’s rapidly retreating back.

. . .

Kim returns ten minutes later, without Jean, with the most befuddled expression you’ve ever seen on his face. He sits by you on the spare chair beside your desk.

“...Hm.” He tugs on his gloves, removes them. “That was strange.”

Your curiosity explodes. “Wha— What happened? What’s going on?!”

Kim takes a moment to put away his gloves in his jacket pockets. “The officer seemed…” He pauses and considers his next words. “Tense. He brought me to Gottlieb and asked him to look by bruise over.” He gestures at the side of his head. His concern for Jean outweighs any embarrassment he feels from the injury. “He asked— He asked if it looked like someone had punched me. Of course, telling that much information from just a bruise is rather difficult, but the Lazareth he—” Puzzlement twists the edges of his lips. “Gottlieb *reassured* Vicquemare that it couldn’t possibly have been caused by a fist.” His eyebrows draw together.

“Then, when the lazareth finished looking me over, ruling it a minor injury that needn’t any special care, the officer pulled me outside.” Kim rubs his bony hands, each phalange defined under his calloused skin. “He—” Kim stops.

“C’mon Kim. What happened?”

He nods. “He asked if I was sure I bumped my head on the Kineema. When I said yes, he seemed to judge me, heavily. I don’t think that was the answer he… wanted. He told me to go back inside, and to take care of myself.” Recollection ended, he leans back in his seat.

“Hmm….” You tap your chin. “We really do have a mystery on our hands.”

Kim does acknowledge you, but continues to frown. 

A voice in your head tells you the answer you want. “Well! I’m sure Jean’s just looking out for you! You guys have been coworkers for, what, a month and a half? I’m sure this is totally normal, good working-relationship behavior.”

“...That is a possibility.” He doesn’t seem convinced.

You wave a dismissive hand. “It’s fine. Jean’s been in a good mood lately, so I’m sure this’ll blow over.”

“If you say so, detective.”

. . .

**Jean-Heron Vicquemare.**

You’re in Montmartre again, a bit later than last time. You’re wearing a short belted black coat: a bit similar to your usual uniform, but you’re sure that if no one recognized you last time, they won’t recognize you now.

The _Mien_ glows pink. You enter the light.

The bell. Kostas mans the bar. Again, eyes on you, except this time Kostas looks baffled instead of bemused. You stride up to him and take a seat. There are more people than last time, and whispers begin filling the air as you make yourself comfortable.

“Monsieur,” there is slight anger in his voice. You smile internally. “ _Myo_ , you can’t be here.”

You wordlessly place a bill on the counter. He looks almost affronted.

“ _Myo_ ,” he hisses, “who knows when Andrus will come back. It’s dangerous for you here, in Montmartre.”

You raise an eyebrow, then gesture at the money on the bar. He jerkily pushes it back towards you. You nod, then bring out your flask from within your coat. You drink.

“Dolores Dei, monsieur,” he huffs disbelievingly. “If you wanted to see me, you could’ve just called.” You almost choke on your liquor. He giggles. Fuck. You wipe the spittle with your spare handkerchief. You notice he has your old one tucked into the chest pocket of his vest, pressed and folded neatly. “Well, I guess there’s nothing I can do to get you to go away, can I? I don’t even have a bouncer.” He goes to the tap and fills a glass up with the shittiest beer you have ever tasted and drops it in front of you, some foam sloshing over the edge. You are glad.

Nimble footsteps, then another man sidles up beside you, plopping himself on the barstool on your right. You try to ignore him. He trails a finger down your shoulder. You lean away. The man is thin, with light muscle toning the exposed dark skin of his arms. You look at his face. Fairly handsome, with a wide mouth and creased eyelids.

“Hello,” the man rumbles. His voice is deep and chocolatey, like dry, dusty cellars lit up by a beam of sunlight. “I’m Joseph. And you’re the flower that decimated Andrus yesterday.”

You grunt. Suddenly, a second man begins leaning in from your left. “And I’m Liam.” A burly redhead with quite a bit of padding orders an ale from beside you. Orange chest hair curls delicately across pale skin from the top of his deep-U tank top. “I must say, what you did yesterday was quite impressive.” He eyes you up and down. “You must be muscled as hell under there.”

Two sturdy hands on your shoulders, massaging the tense tendons there. “Hi, handsome. Pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.” A man with long dark hair and chiselled cheekbones leans into your right ear. Seolite in complexion. Sun-kissed skin brushes against your face. “You can call me Ellis.”

Kostas levels a glare at all three. “Leave my customer alone, you horny bastards.” You feel your face furiously burn. The bartender gives you a mischievous side-eye.

Ellis laughs. They ring like clear bell-tones in the evening wind. “Why? Jealous, Kostas?” Joseph chuckles good-naturedly. Liam smiles wide, showing off pearly teeth.

“As if,” Kostas deadpans. He poses behind the bar, one hand on hip, the other pirouetting in air. “You all are no match—” He bows mockingly. “—for me.” Laughter fills the bar; it seems everyone is watching. You hide your face in your mug. Kostas smiles.

“I’m very flattered, gentlemen,” you mutter. Joseph whistles low. “But I’m not— I’m just here to drink.”

“Aw, _Fleur Bleue_. That’s gonna break the heart of every single man in this bar,” Liam teases. Ellis whines theatrically behind you.

“Now shoo. He said his piece.” Kostas waives them away like errant pigeons. “Pick up the broken pieces of your soul somewhere else.” The men groan, but comply. You calm yourself; it’s been a while since so many people have talked at you. It was— it was nice.

Kostas disappears into the kitchen then comes back, holding something behind his back. “You seem a bit worn, _Myo_ ,” the bartender says. He places a plate of fried green beans in front of you with a flourish. “My treat.”

You grin imperceptibly. Your face cools. “Thanks, Kostas.” 

“Think of it as repayment for yesterday, though,” he glares at you half-heartedly. “You still shouldn’t be here.” You nod and take a bite. It’s nice and crunchy. “Are you planning to get hammered again?”

“Of course.” You stack ten reàl on the counter, in advance.

He considers the money, then pockets it. “I’m still cutting you off, when you drink too much.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

. . .

The night is winding down. Only a few patrons remain: you and four others, all down in their cups. You’ve paced yourself this time, but the next drink Kostas places in front of you is a cold cup of water. You wordlessly sip it as he gradually closes shop.

“Alright, closing time everyone.” Kostas walks out of the back room and locks it, holding a long woolen cardigan in hand. He wraps the fabric round his shoulders. “Let’s get out of here and back into the real world.” The men groan, but one by one they shuffle out. You make to follow. Kostas falls in step beside you.

“It is two in the morning, monsieur,” he says, tossing the keys up and down in his hand. The bell jingles, the night air hits your flushed face. Kostas locks the front door. “I insist on driving you home.”

“Kostas,” you say, softly. A shiver you don’t comprehend passes through the bartender. “I can handle myself. You saw yesterday.”

“Yes.” He sighs. “I did. At least, will you walk me to my car?” He gazes imploringly at you.

“Fine.”

“Wonderful!” Kostas grabs you by your hand. They are surprisingly rough, for a man of his slight stature. He pulls you towards the alley leading behind the _Mien_ , connected to a hidden parking lot. Streetlights shine pools of yellow onto desolate stone, and the two of you travel from each, like migrating fish swimming between oceans of light. Warmth travels from his palm into yours: it is your beacon in the dark.

The two of you arrive at the car. It’s old and weathered. One of the headlights has been hastily taped together: a far downgrade from your Coupris 40. Kostas does not let go of your hand, then turns to face you, leaning on the vehicle door, light haloing his face, and waits for something. The two of you are locked in a mystifying orbit, the nature of which you cannot seem to figure out. 

You don’t move. Disappointment flashes in his eyes as he gently lets go of your hand. He unlocks the door. You open it for him. What was that about?

“Goodnight, Kostas,” you murmur. The man sits in the driver’s seat and stares at you, thoughts concealed to your comprehension. A small, sad smile slowly spreads across his lips. He sighs, longingly. For what, you do not know.

  
“...And a good evening to you, _Myo_.” You close the door. The engine rumbles to life. As you turn and walk away, all you can feel are his eyes on your back, the impression of green lingering even when you arrive at your apartment.


	2. Vulnérable

**Harrier Du Bois**

Jean’s good mood has not ceased the next day, only slightly dampened by — confusion?— it doesn’t matter. The entire precinct is in silent uproar. Even Trant seemed a little unsettled when Jean briskly handed him a cup of coffee and remarked, “It’s a nice day today.”

“Jean, has something happened? You seem to be in high spirits lately!” Leave it to Heidelstam to just fucking ask it, genuine smile shining from his face. Half of the precinct leans in to hear the other man’s response. You think you see Pryce peek out his office door.

“No,” Jean says. He reconsiders. “...Does it seem I’m in a good mood?”

“Yes! Why, the last time you said ‘it’s a nice day’ with any sincerity was several years ago!” The dark-haired Satellite-Officer just stares at the glowing blonde man, then shrugs. 

“I’ve been… destressing after work, lately. After we go to the gym.”

“I see. And what does that involve?”

“...Drinking.”

You hoot. Torson begrudgingly slaps several reál into your waiting palm.

“Where? I haven’t seen you around your usual spots, Jean,” Heidelstam presses.

“...A bar.”

Big question answered, you turn away from the two men, back at Kim. “Wait.” You consider the money in your hand. “I still feel like it was a sexy crime of passion.”

“Then why did you bet on alcoholism.” Kim did not participate in the betting.

“It was the safe option. Don’t judge me.”

The Lieutenant sighs. He slams a stack of paperwork onto your desk, then walks away.

. . .

**Jean-Heron Vicquemare**

Over the past several days, a kaleidoscope of men of different creeds, fashions, and body types solicit you in the _Mien_. One time, someone in wide bell-bottom pants edges into your periphery. You order an entire bottle of whiskey and try not to stare. Kostas looks thoughtful afterwards. From then on, even more individuals approached, some recurring, some not. A man with heavy sideburns once comes. You order several shots with your emergency money, hidden away in your boot. From then on, primarily men with some sort of facial hair attempt to talk to you. You refuse to think about it.

Finally, on the one week anniversary of your arrival at the _Mien_ , which, you have noticed, is more vibrant with clientele than ever, Kostas gives you a conspiratorial smile. You’ve already downed quite a bit of liquor. Before you can ask Kostas why, the bell jingles and a new man walks in. You look. You stare.

The man looks to be in his late 40s, long, brown hair pulled into a short ponytail dangling at the base of his skull. Thick mutton chops line the edges of his chiseled jaw. The man is large; there are hints of muscle peering through the unbuttoned top of his white shirt, and a hefty beer gut swallows his middle. He wears bright yellow bell-bottom pants, wrapping tightly around muscular thighs and ending in some of the most garish leather shoes you have ever seen. His eyes are baby blue, the exact shade. You feel your lungs burning. You force yourself to take a shaky breath. He approaches. You can only gaze at him.

The man thumps into the stool beside you. It is too small for him. He shoots you an easy grin. “Kostas, a Potent Blend for him and me.” Kostas smiles and complies. He leaves you two alone with your drinks.

“So,” the man leans an elbow on the counter. You can smell an intoxicating blend of smoke and sweat radiating off of him, mixed with a light stench of alcohol. He reaches out a meaty hand. “I’m Hayes.” You startle out of your trance, visibly, then clasp his hand. It’s like a fucking furnace. You’re too fucking drunk for this. “And I hear you’re _Myosotis_ , is that right?”

You cough. “...You can call me Vic.” You draw your hand back to yourself, rubbing the knuckles. Your pulse thrums in your wrists.

“Vic.” He smiles brightly. You cannot look away. “A good name!” He chuckles and pats your back. You take a heady gulp of the Potent Blend. You can feel the lingering warmth of his hand seep into the back of your shirt, burning fire into the affected areas. 

You ogle. He notices and smirks, indulging in your attention. His nose and cheeks are ruddy; he must’ve been drinking before he came in. Soft creases frame his eyes, laughter lines trailing into deeper wrinkles in shining skin. You reach out—

You freeze, hand suspended in mid-air. You can’t fucking breathe. You— Hayes closes the distance and leans into the touch. You feel your breath quickening, your heart is pounding painfully in your core, rattling your entire chest, sending pulsing vibrations into the bottom of your gut. You feel sick. His face is rough, also warm, like his hands. Your heart, bursting— Your breath, trapped—

You shoot up from your seat and slam your hand onto the counter. Pain shoots up your arm, partially freeing you of the oppressive weight crushing your chest. Your heavy breathing echoes throughout the room, which is silent enough to hear a fucking pin drop. The whole bar is staring at you. You clench your jaw and close your eyes and force yourself to breathe slower, willing your heart to fucking stop beating so fucking hard while you’re at it. It doesn’t. Someone coughs in the background. “No,” you whisper hoarsely. “No, I—”

Hayes raises his hands disarmingly and backs off. Kostas rushes to your side. “ _Myo!_ What—, what’s wrong?”

You stutter and lean heavily on the bar, one hand clutching your chest. You feel like you’re about to fucking collapse. “No, Kostas. It’s fine. I’m fine. I’m fucking okay.” You’re still not getting enough air in your lungs. The walls of the _Mien_ press closer. “I need—” You gasp. The organ hammering into your ribs robs you of all thought.

Kostas grabs your shoulder and wordlessly marches you into the back room, out the back door, grabbing a thick blanket on the way. He snaps to one of the men in storage. “Take over the bar. I’ll be right back.” You’re still clutching your chest. He gently pushes the hand down until it hangs limp by your side. Each panicked breath sends a cloud of white shooting into the night sky. He manhandles you until you’re sitting on the concrete steps, right outside the _Mien,_ swaddled in soft blue. He waits until your breath stops coming in bursts.

You swallow, suppress a hiccup. “I’m—”

“No, you’re not sorry. And no, you’re not fine,” he says. You grunt. Kostas fumbles in his vest and brings out a pack of cigarettes. He forces one into your mouth and hurriedly lights it, then lights his own. “*I’m* so fucking sorry, _Myo._ ” The lighter clinks as it enters his pocket.

You look at him inquisitively, heart still beating painfully, cigarette glowing dully in your mouth. He avoids your eyes. “I—” He starts and stops. He grits his teeth. Sighs. Smoke escapes into the air. “I thought Hayes would make you happy.”

You are still confused. He sighs deeper. “I should’ve known. You drank more when people like *him* came around. I thought that was just you being shy, but…” He takes an angry drag. “I should’ve known better. He must be a bad memory for you.”

You cough. “...Who’s ‘he?’”

“Don’t play dumb with me, monsieur.” He scowls at you, green eyes glittering dangerously in the dark, like a snake in the grass. “There is some man in your life, most likely looking exactly like poor Hayes in there,” he jerks a thumb behind him. “And he hurt you, didn’t he? You loved him and he hurt you.”

You stare, mouth agape. You snap it shut, then turn away. Your brain feels like it’s on fire, in disarray. “...How did you know?” Your lungs ache in the extremities.

He groans. Hangs his head between his knees. “ _Myo_ , you fucking came to a homo-sexual bar and the only thing you did is drink and stare off into the distance. We *know.*” He slams a fist into his knee. “I should’ve fucking known. I just— I thought I could make you happy.” He sounds miserable.

The two of you huddle on the steps in silence. You take your first drag. It’s sweeter than you’re used to. Aerostatics sparkle above, partially hidden behind cloud cover. The wind caresses your face. “...He died two months ago.”

Kostas looks anguished, guilt ravaging his delicate features. “Dolores fucking Dei,” he mutters. He sticks a second cigarette in his mouth, and begins puffing away.

“He…” Are you ready to hurtle down this particular path? Isn’t the point *not* to remember, to drink until all you’re aware of is the unsteady beat of your heart?

Kostas leans in; he notices your stillness. “You can talk to me, you know? Whatever happened… I’d like to help you with it, however much I can.” All is quiet. The night is cold. Kostas looks at you pityingly. You stub your cigarette on the stair. You don’t feel like smoking. 

...Why the hell is he looking at you like that, anyway? You don’t fucking know, but this feeling… Your line of work puts you in the midst of professional con artists, spies, and manipulators. You don’t have Harry’s supercop senses—you can’t see through the coats of bullshit and you damn well can’t navigate those waters on your own. But in sudden, terrible clarity, you *know* you are being *played.* He begins to wrap an arm around your shoulders. A surge of hot emotion flares through your veins. You hit his hand away. 

“Stop.” Thoughts fly through your whirring cortex. Why the hell did he call Hayes? He must’ve known it would’ve done this to you. So he could hold it over you, to keep you at the _Mien_. 

He freezes. “Is everyth—”

“Don’t fucking touch me,” you snap. Kostas’s cigarettes dangle from his parted lips. “You— I’ve only known you for a fucking week.” You stand up too fast and almost fall over. Your head spins. “I— You’re the one who brought Hayes over.” You stumble on the blanket. You throw it on the ground. It lies, dirtied, covering the small pile of cigarette butts at the bottom of the steps. You bark out a cruel laugh. “What, you thought it would make me happy? Bullshit. You barely know me. I just fucking— I fucking lost it in front of *everyone* in the _Mien._ You fucking set that up perfectly, great job.” Heat courses into your face, half from the embarrassment, half from the anger. “I can’t— I haven’t done that in forever. I came here to get *away* from all the fucking mind games. I should’ve seen this coming.”

Kostas stammers. “ _Myo_ —”

“No.” You shake your head. The world whirls. “No. You—” You cough. You grope behind you and lean on the wall there. You catch your breath. Silence echoes in the alleyway. “I’m leaving,” you snarl. You grope for your wallet and, finding what you’re looking for, throw 20 reál at the feet of the bartender, with all your spare coins for good measure. “There. There’s your fucking money. I hope that gets you a fucking bouncer for the bar. I’m not coming back.” He doesn’t move to pick it up. He’s just fucking sitting there, staring, in shock.

That’s strange. You would think he’d be angry at your accusations, deny everything. He seems genuinely surprised. You don’t think about it.

You turn and walk away, gripping the wall for support. Coins clink and fall onto the pavement as Kostas scrambles upright. “ _Myo_ , you can’t. You’re barely standing.” You ignore him. “Please.” A sob distorts his voice. “Just let me call a cab for you. I’m sorry for everything. Let this be the last thing I do for you. Please, monsieur.” His voice ends in a pathetic whimper. 

You glare at him over your shoulder. Tear tracks shine under the lamp lights, reflecting dazzling silver into your eyes. They’re fake. They have to be. “No, Kostas,” you growl. “We’re fucking done.” You stride away.

The sounds of a man crying behind you eventually fade into nothing. At the first intersection, you start running, ignoring the wobbling in your legs. You don’t know where you’re going. Left. Right. Past a brightly glowing Frittte. Motor cars pass dangerously close. You don’t fucking care. Your breath is faltering in your lungs, your heart feels it is about to burst. *You don’t fucking care.*

You stop, finally. Precinct 41 shines incandescent before you, dome ceiling rising up among the flat, sloped roofs of the surrounding buildings. Only one light is on; Gottlieb’s office. You do not think he has ever not been there. You approach the front door and use your ID card on the electric lock.

Gottlieb’s office door is a light cyan, painted many times over the years as frantic officers busted through them, chipping the paint. You gently knock. A grumble, then a muffled “Come in.” You enter.

The grizzled lazareth looks up from his desk, where several autopsy forms lay scattered. You can feel him examining you, lingering on your bloated face. You rub it, as if it’d make it look any better. You feel like you’re going to fall over. He stands, then supports you to the waist-high patient bed in the corner of the room. “Where’s your flask, shithead,” he murmurs. He gently helps you out of your coat. 

“I lost it.” It’s currently sitting on top of the _Mien_ ’s bar. Kostas will find it when he closes shop. He can keep it.

“Any injuries?” You sit on the bed and take off your boots.

“No, not this time. He’s not my partner anymore, Nix.” The sheets are rough, white cotton. They smell clean; far better than your bed at home. You lie down and shift until you’re comfortable. Gottlieb throws the blanket on top of you. “Thanks.” Gottlieb nods, pensive. He goes and turns off the lights, then clicks on his desk lamp to continue working on the autopsies.

You fall asleep to the calming scribble of pen on paper, trying your best to not think about Kostas, and not think about *him.* You fail.

. . .

**Harrier Du Bois**

The precinct is in uproar, again. You can feel it emanating off of the repurposed silk mill even before you enter. This time, though, it is far tenser; much more wrought, crawling with upset and tamped-down concern. You smile: another mystery for you to solve!

Once you realize it’s source, however, there is not much reason to rejoice. Jean looks *awful.* He is wearing his spare uniform, a size too small, and his hair sticks out in all directions in conjunction with his especially scraggly beard. Worst of all are the bags under his eyes: they’re a deep purple, veiny. He looks like he’d been decked in both sides of his face and then proceeded to rub sand into the tender skin. His entire face is swollen and pale, and he looks like he’s nursing the biggest headache you have ever seen in your life. You wince in sympathy.

Judit approaches and places a cup of coffee and some pain meds on his desk. Jean quietly mumbles his thanks and proceeds to down the pills, dry, then slowly sip at the coffee. Judit offers him four packs of sugar. He dumps all of them in.

McLaine sidles up beside you. “Oh my fucking god. Fate really did correct course,” he whispers in reverence. You nod. It did. It really fucking did. Kim sees the two of you and approaches your desk. He leans on the edge on your right.

“The Satellite-Officer is… He seems in worse condition than usual.” That’s Kim-speak for “he looks like shit warmed over.” “Do you know what happened to him?”

McLaine grumbles. “I don’t fucking know. He hasn’t been going out with the boys for the past couple of weeks. Been keeping to himself.”

“Hold on, he hasn’t been going out with you guys?” you ask. “Who’s he been drinking with then?” You feel the officer would at least try to have company. It feels wrong to imagine him, alone, at any bar; you were always there with him.

Kim answers. “It is possible that he prefers to drink alone.”

“No way,” McLaine retorts. “Jean had a rule where he wouldn’t go out to drink unless there were two other people with him, besides Harry of course. He’d be fucking pouty the next day if this jackass dragged him off anyway.”

“Hmm…” You tap your desk. “Maybe he found new people to drink with?”

“Jean? Are you shitting me?” McLaine snorts. “If the bastard isn’t at the precinct, out saving your fucking ass, Harry, or drinking with the 41st, he’s at home, moping or something.” He grunts. “I’ve never seen the man with anyone outside of the RCM, unless you count Heidelstam.”

“Anyways,” you clap your hands. “This doesn’t answer the question of what the fuck happened.”

“Indeed,” Kim says. “The hangover suggests a long night of drinking, though I imagine that cannot be the sole cause of his current condition.”

“Yeah, Jean can hold his liquor.” You vaguely remember pushing a bottle of vodka into his hands and the flash of a competitive smile. “Even then, he usually doesn’t let the pain show. You really have to *look* to tell with him, but right now he’s, uh. He looks like his nanny fucking died in a ditch.” McLaine nods in agreement. Judit walks in your direction, casting worried glances at the Satellite-Officer on the way.

“...I’m worried about Vic,” she whispers, when she’s close enough. She takes the desk edge opposite of Kim. “I know I joked about fate ‘correcting course’ but…” She looks regretful. “I didn’t know it would be like this.”

“Do you know what happened, officer?” Kim asks.

“No. He has no visible injuries, and the marks on his face are from…” She hesitates. Gathers herself to deliver the news. “It looks like he’s been crying, or at least was very close to it.”

Your brain stops. Silence descends suffocatingly on the group. “He… he wouldn’t cry,” McLaine murmurs. “Harry here may be a fucking crybaby, but… Even fucking Torson has lost it more often than Jean. He gets hurt more often than anyone, and still doesn’t cry.” He sounds a bit desperate. “That has to be from drinking too much.”

God, that has to be it.

Kim stares at Vicquemare’s hunched back. “...I would not be so sure, officer.”

Judit bites her lip. “Do you think we should step in?”

A voice screams at you in the back of your head. Do *not* get fucking involved, Harry. “No, no. It’s Jean! He’ll be fine. He’s a tough motherfucker. This is just a blip in the system; he’s never been like this before.” The officers stare at you. “...Right?”

McLaine looks extremely uncomfortable. Judit looks away then speaks up. “He hasn’t… been like this since… No, nevermind. It was in the past.” You feel relieved she doesn’t elaborate. You don’t know why.

“Please, tell us, officer,” Kim says. Goddamn it. “It may be pertinent to his current condition.”

Judit nods, reluctantly conceding to his point. “...A couple of years ago, the entire precinct went out drinking, to celebrate one of your cases, Harry. You would usually drink quite a bit on nights like those. Get a bit ‘wild.’ You— you took things too far.”

“What do you mean?”

McLaine grunts. “What she means is that you got fucking wasted. Just fucking — snorted meth in front of *everyone,* then downed a half bottle of tequila. When Jean tried to stop you…” He seems reluctant to say it.

“You beat Vic up,” Judit remarks flatly, as if listing off a piece of evidence in her ledger. “He ended up with a broken collarbone and nose before McCoy and Torson managed to pull you off.” Her eyes fill with sadness. “...He didn’t even fight back.”

Kim is staring at you, gauging your reaction. You can’t. Your mind is static.

Judit continues. Shakes her head. “It was a one-time thing.” You ask yourself if it was. There is no answer. “And you’re a better person now, Harry. You’ve been sober since Martinaise.” She sends a weak smile your way, trying to comfort you. “You apologized and he forgave you. I was there, in the hospital.”

Kim coughs. “Khm. The detective was with me all day yesterday, investigating our case.”

“And you said Jean wasn’t injured, either,” McLaine remarks. “It has to be he just drank too much.”

“...Yeah.” A muffled shriek howls in your cerebrum. “That has to be it.”

No one speaks. Everyone at your desk knows: there is something more going on here, and it probably has to do with *you.*

. . .

**Jean-Heron Vicquemare**

You enter the captain’s office, case files in hand. Morning light shines in through the window, squares of it casting distorted prisms onto Pryce’s desk. He waters a desk plant.

Pryce takes one look at you, raises an eyebrow, and turns back to his task at hand. “Lieutenant Satellite-Officer Jean-Heron Vicquemare,” he says. “You are on paid leave for the following five days, effective now.”

You stand frozen, door still partially ajar behind you. “Captain—”

Pryce raises a silencing hand. Gives you a hard glare. “Effective immediately. Am I understood?”

Why? You know you look like shit; everyone in the precinct has done nothing but gawk at you all day. You have no fucking clue what you’ll do for five days, alone. Does he think you’re not fit for duty? 

It’s true. You don’t deserve to be here, and he knows it. You’ve been solving far less cases since Kitsuragi was assigned as Harry’s partner. “...Yes, understood.” You place the files on the edge of his desk, then leave, closing the door as quietly as possible behind you. You walk through the hallway, into the common room. Harry and Kim sit hunched over something. You look straight ahead as you briskly stride by. You think they look up, but you can’t be sure. Down the stairs you go.

Torson is in the locker room when you arrive. He turns to you with a smirk, which fades when you silently stride by, without acknowledging his fucking presence. A few turns of the knob, then the locker opens with a clang. You start changing out of your uniform: rumpled pants, shirt, jacket. Worn boots with scuffed heels. You throw it into the locker, hastily throw on your other clothes, then slam it shut. Torson stares. You breeze past him.

Gottlieb is smoking by the front door. You burst out, steps now heavy with an emotion you can’t fucking identify, shoulders hunched. He startles. “Vicquemare,” he calls out. “Where the fuck are you going?!” You disregard him also. He doesn’t come after you.

Your apartment is ten minutes away, if you run. You were supposed to stop by the pharmacy on the way home, pick up your meds; you ran out. You arrive in seven minutes.

Five flights of stairs later, your apartment door bangs shut behind you. Your breath comes in ragged gasps. You’re alone again; not even Gottlieb is fucking here, as he was last night. You push down a scream and march into your bedroom. Orange drug bottles, all empty, litter your nightstand. You can’t bear to look at them. They’re just another reminder that you’re a fucking failure.

The sheets are grey, threadbare. The pillow is lumpy underneath your cheek. The room is empty and cold; it feels too large, despite the fact that your apartment is fucking puny. You reach over to the window and close the curtains.

You stay there, for a while, a miasma of stale sweat and orange plastic and eons-old tiredness making home deep in your soul.

. . .

You come to consciousness. It’s dark; sunlight no longer filters through the shitty curtains you bought a decade ago. Your clock reads 19:42. You don’t feel rested.

You get up, go to the bathroom. You shower. Brush your teeth. Don’t fucking think. Your razor shines brightly on top of the white porcelain sink. You don’t touch it.

You dress in a shirt and sweatpants, then open your fridge. It smells like rot. You close it. 

It’s cold out. Wind sweeps across the metal balcony, blowing forgotten cigarette ash into the wind. You draw out a box of cigarettes from your pocket.

You stand there, smoke an entire pack, then go back inside, to sleep, again.

. . . 

The bar bursts with people: smiling, but you can’t see their faces. Precinct 41 has claimed a corner of the room, loudly celebrating Harry’s latest case, and Kostas mans the bar. He and Harry share a chuckle as Harry downs shot after shot, shot after fucking shot. He does a line on top of the counter. The world blurs; you feel sunlight drape across your back, rising until it sets upon the shitkid’s face. Flecks of golden dust — the cocainer — swirl like snow in its radiant path. He is an angel. He is the sun. You move towards him, without walking.

He turns to face you, cheeks flushed. His face is in startling detail in comparison to the smokey ambiguity comprising the world around you. It is exactly as you remember: each wrinkle, each misplaced strand of hair. The smile. It darkens when he sees you.

The shadows grow longer, swallowing the bar. The light is gone now. Harry stands. He’s so much taller than you remember; he towers above, wind whipping in his face, face lost in the dark. You open your mouth, but you can’t speak. He silently draws back a fist. You’re bound in place, you struggle but none of your body is cooperating. It doesn’t even let you scream.

As the blow nears your face, the jagged, familiar scar above his third knuckles in clear definition, studied secretly from beside him all those years ago, you can only think, over and over, in that eternity, heart screaming its painful clarion call, “I’m *sorry.*”

You wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sometimes i wonder why i make jean hurt


	3. Enquête

**Harrier Du Bois**

Gottlieb stews quietly as he fixes up a cut on your arm, earned when you tripped and fell on top of a pile of broken glass. The wrinkles on his face seem deeper, the brows even more furrowed than usual. He wraps the bandage around the wound, quick and efficient, then grunts. “It’s done. Now get the hell out of here.” As you stand, something flickers across his face. “Wait.”

“What?” He strides directly into you. You back away so you don't collide.

He corners you into a wall. “What did you fucking do, Harry.”

“Huh?” You stumble a bit as your foot catches on something. “Wait, what?” You think you know where this is going.

“Jean,” he snaps. You were correct. “What did you fucking do to him.”

“Wait, hold on. I didn’t do anything,” you stammer. Did you? You don’t know. “All I know is that he came in looking like shit three days ago, then Pryce gave him paid leave.” You hold up your hands. “No one knows what's going on with him. I’ve asked everyone. I haven’t even spoken to him in like, a month!”

Gottlieb seems… surprised at your answer. He expected something more confrontational, no, violent. Why? He grumbles, then turns sideways, letting you escape. It seems he believes you. 

You lumber out of the lazareth’s office. Kim is there, waiting for you. He closes his notebook. “Let’s go.”

Today, the two of you are visiting Montmartre Square, the homo-sexual capital of Jamrock, due to some reports of violence breaking out in one of its bars. You are the first officers to not deny the case due to its location.

“So,” you think aloud. Kim opens the door to the station garage. “The _Mien_ , huh? Have you—” you wiggle your eyebrows, “—heard of it?” 

Kim sighs. “Locals consider the _Mien_ one of the cleaner-run establishments in Montmartre. It is run by Kostas Yahontov, 32, who emigrated from Ubi Sunt around two decades ago and has since built the business up from the ground. Since then, he has accumulated considerable rapport with the— the men there.” Kim coughs. “They also report that it has been, let’s say, ‘down on its luck’ lately, until a week ago.” He pulls out a sheaf of paper. It looks financial. “The business records I could pull from the Bureau are very vague; it is likely they ‘overlook’ the whole of Montemartre when compiling data.”

You nod. “Thanks, Kim. That was very thorough.”

He smiles. “You are welcome, detective. Now, let’s go investigate.” He opens the Kineema door and motions for you to get in. You do so.

Only several minutes later, the two of you arrive. “We could’ve walked,” you remark.

The Lieutenant frowns. “We were not going to run for half an hour, Harry.”

You pout. “Fine. Let’s go see what’s up.”

It’s still mid-afternoon, an hour before the bar opens. You can see some people shuffling behind the heavily stained glass. Kim nods at you. You knock.

A man in a rumpled, navy vest approaches the door. He points at the sign reading “Closed.” You flash your RCM badge at him. He sighs, and then you hear the click of a lock opening. You and your partner step inside.

“Hello, gentlemen.” He seems tired. Red bags hang under his eyes. “What may I do for the upstanding paragons of Revacholian society today?” He’s being sarcastic, a voice in your head chimes in.

You look around the inside. Shelves burdened with colorful liquor are mounted on the far wall, behind the counter. Eight stools line the bar, with six booths, which can sit four people each, taking up the rest of the space. Various pieces of neon lighting, currently off, surround you. It isn't that large, but there is a door leading into what looks like a storage or back room, connected to a kitchen. A small window to the cooking area allows food to be passed through to the front.

As for damage, several glass bottles and cups have been shattered on the ground. A couple of workers are cleaning them up; they look like volunteers. A table has been flipped over, splintered in two. Alcohol stains the floorboards below.

Kim reaches his hand out. “Hello. I am Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi of Precinct 41. This here is my partner, Lieutenant Double-Yefreitor Harry Du Bois.” The man shakes his hand. “What may we call you?”

“You can call me Kostas. I run the _Mien_.” He looks you up and down. His brows furrow. “...What was your name again?”

“Oh! I’m Harry! Nice to meet you!” You hold out your hand. He doesn’t take it. You sheepishly lower your arm.

Kim continues, ignoring your failed attempt at diplomacy. “We received a call yesterday, at 23:19, about violence breaking out in this establishment. No officers were dispatched because a second person took the phone and reassured the receiving officer that the event was over. However, there were various reports from around the area about fearing for those within the _Mien_. Were you the one who made the initial call?”

“...No. I was the one who told the officer to not send aid.”

“If we may ask, why?” you say.

Kostas ignores you and inspects the Lieutenant. A flash of recognition. “Wait— I’ve met you before.” He winces; he seems to regret the words as soon as they come out of his mouth. The owner of the _Mien_ sends a furtive between you and your partner, as if to confirm something with the Lieutenant through just eye movement. 

Kim nods. The tips of his ears burn. “He knows.”

Kostas nods. Sighs. “I’m sorry, monsieur. I’m usually more careful than that.” You scrutinize the man. It isn’t just the bar fight that has shaken him up; there’s something else. A heartbreak, perhaps? “Please, come in. I’ve been keeping you at the door; my apologies. If this Lieutenant is with you, I trust that you two will behave in Montmartre.” Kostas leads you both to the bar, then goes behind the counter to polish a pile of cups. “What may I do for you today?”

Kim nods to you. That’s your sign. You lean an elbow on the counter. “So… come here often?” The Lieutenant sighs beside you.

The bartender smirks, despite himself. “You could say that.” His eyes linger on your clothes and your sideburns. It’s not flirtatious, it’s something else. “I’m sorry, you look like someone I know. Are you into disco, by any chance?”

“Hell yeah, I’m fucking discocop!” Kim sends you a glare. “...Why do you ask?”

He shakes his head. “No, it’s nothing. I’m sure you have other questions.” Something tells you not to push on this. You don’t.

“Yes, we do,” Kim says. So please ask relevant questions, detective, goes unsaid. You comply.

“Why were you unwilling to answer my question earlier?”

He rubs his forearm against his face. “As you may know, police officers are not welcome in Montmartre.” He raises a disarming hand. “Not that I think the RCM does not have its purpose. It’s just that they have refused to help us for so long and when they do, they do such a… a harsh job that we prefer to resolve our conflicts independently.” He is not telling the half of it. Cases involving men or women found in homo-sexual bars tend to… disappear. Reports of police violence, swept under the rug. He seems to have personal experience with it.

“I see,” Kim remarks. He is aware of this, and though he would not admit it, it affects him. “Still, we would like to explore the area, ask questions. We at the RCM would, with your permission, make sure a similar event does not happen again.”

You continue. “What happened here, yesterday, at the _Mien_?”

“Well, to know that, you will need a little bit of background. I assume you know little about Montmartre politics?” You nod. “I see. Montmartre may be considered a den of lawless degenerates, but we have our own code that we follow.” He picks up a second glass. “We have been forced to learn how to govern ourselves, the currency being acceptance. Homo-sexuals who do not remain civil can be banned from Montmartre establishments, ridding them of a place that knows who they are and does not judge them for it,” he says. Pauses. “Usually.”

“What are the exceptions?”

“Now that has directly to do with what happened last night. Andrus is unique among Montmartre locals for having… friends in higher places.” He snorts. “That is not a high bar for a degenerate, but still. In short, Andrus has a gang of non-homo-sexual brutes, a separate entity from outside Montmartre, that are capable and willing to exercise force when he calls upon them. They probably think it is for sport.”

You think for a moment. Something clicks. “So this Andrus — he and his buddies trashed the place. And you can’t do anything about it because his non-homo-sexual friends are outside the jurisdiction of Montmartre, and you can’t ask for help from the RCM.”

Kostas sighs. “Yes. That is about it.”

Kim speaks. “Was Andrus a regular of the _Mien_?”

“Yes, he was.”

“If so,” you pipe up. “Why did he suddenly decide to mess this place up? I imagine it took him at least a day to gather up his posse. Did anything happen in the week prior?”

“Well…” Kostas’s eyes darken, green turning into black. “Yes, something happened a week and a half ago.” He seems reluctant to talk about it.

“You can tell us, Kostas,” you encourage. “The RCM might have been shit before, but now *I’m* here! And I’m all for underground homo-sexual activity!”

A flicker of a smile alights the bartender’s face. “That is nice to hear, monsieur. Anyways, a week and a half ago, we had a new face in the bar.”

Kim flips open his notebook to a fresh page. “Could you please describe him?”

“Yes. He was a little taller than me, dark and broody. You know the type. Black hair, grey eyes. Muscular.”

“Any defining facial features?”

“His face was pockmarked by acne or measles. I do not know which. He kept to himself.”

“Name?”

“...He did not give me a real name. He asked to be called _Myosotis_.” Forget-me-nots: symbol of the moralintern. Once a symbol of the RCM.

Kim frowns at the information he has written down. He seems thoughtful. “...Detective.”

“Yeah, Kim?”

“...No, nevermind. Keep on asking your questions.”

You comply. “So what happened with this new guy?”

Kostas picks up a third glass. “That night, Andrus was also at the bar. He started a fight with poor Ben. You see, I do not have a bouncer, so I have to deal with these conflicts myself. When I went to break up the fight, Andrus spat in my face and was about to punch me,” he recollects. Fondly? “When _Myo_ ,” a pet name, “took the hit for me, gave me his handkerchief, and proceeded to slam Andrus into the ground and pin him there.” He chuckles. “I swear Andrus pissed his pants.”

“Hold on, what happened to the dark-haired man?”

“I warned him not to come back, but he was one stubborn customer,” he recollects wistfully. “He seduced the entire bar that night, and it didn’t help that he kept coming back either, still as mysterious as ever. I assume Andrus did not come back due to his presence here.”

Kim adjusts his glasses. “Is that why the _Mien_ has been seeing an increase in business lately?”

“I imagine so. Everyone wanted a piece: the ‘flower that decimated Andrus,’ Joseph called him. Some of them, however, were just there in hopes there would be another fight, or perhaps they were glad Andrus was no longer there.”

“Do you know if he’ll come back tonight, so we can interview him?”

Kostas winces, heavily. “...He left the _Mien_ , permanently, three days ago. Two days ago, Andrus started coming back to the _Mien_.”

There’s something there. Perhaps related to the aforementioned heartbreak? “What happened?”

“I’m sorry, gendarme, but,” he places the glass down, presses both hands into the bar. “I do not think he would appreciate the reason for his parting being told to anyone, and I will not help you in this matter.” There is iron in his voice. Nothing you can say will convince him otherwise. He glares at you. “I suggest you do not go asking around, either. I am sure he does not want to be found, and I shall be very cross if you force him to become a witness. The information I have given you should suffice.” Kostas proceeds to give you a description of Andrus. You note it, then leave.

“Very well, Mr. Kostas. Thank you for your time.” Kim closes his notebook and looks at you. “A moment, if you please, detective.”

The two of you exit the _Mien_. “What is it, Kim?”

“...Did the description of the dark-haired man strike you as… familiar?”

“Uh, no?” The voices in your head are silent on this matter. “Why, do you recognize them?”

“Hm. It was quite similar to Satellite-Officer Vicquemare.”

No way. “That’s silly, Kim,” you chuckle. “There're other dark-haired muscular men with pockmarked faces in Jamrock. Plus Jean wouldn’t— he wouldn’t come to Montmartre.” Right? Right, there’s no way, a voice reassures you. If he was — no that’s ridiculous. Stop thinking about it.

“...If you say so, detective.” Kim straightens. “After you.” The two of you head off to question the locals about the situation. The case will probably be wrapped up within the day. For a minor infraction like this, it’s simply a matter of locating Andrus and handing him a slip calling him to the precinct, to scare him from further aggression.

. . .

It’s dark out and you still have no idea where Andrus is or who the dark-haired man was. For the former, the locals seem unwilling to reveal information in fear of retaliation. For the latter, plenty of people were willing to talk, but digging through the speculation and rumors revealed that nobody knew close to anything about the man. 

“So, he’s a spy from Graad, sent to learn how to dismantle Revacholian society through Jamrock’s underground homo-sexual community.”

The short, brown-skinned man nods enthusiastically. He looks like he’s already had much to drink. “Yes! That’s what I’ve been telling people. It’s the only thing that makes sense, with his—” The man searches for the correct words. “—absolutely *ideal* physique and all.”

A woman smoking besides him chips in. “No, no, no. You’ve got it all wrong. *I* think,” she lowers her voice to a bare whisper. “I think he’s an undercover cop.”

You and the man burst out laughing. “Liz,” he giggles. “That is the funniest shit you’ve ever said. I’m sure these guys would fucking know if he was an officer.” You and Kim wrap up your investigation and head back to the Kineema.

It’s 18:20. The moon glows softly above. Kim leans on the precinct balcony, smoking his one cigarette for the day, tapping a pen on his open notebook. “It seems that this case will take a little longer than expected, detective.” Starlight reflects off of his glasses, disappearing into the event horizon on the round edge of corrective crystal. “At least we know the identity of the perpetrator.”

“Yeah, I’m sure we’ll find him tomorrow.” You lean on the railing. The wind is cool on your face. “Do you think Andrus will come back tonight?”

“It is a possibility.” The Lieutenant takes attentive drag of his cigarette. “Likely, in fact. But we should not act until Mr. Kostas gives us a call. I doubt he would allow us to stake out in his establishment.”

“That’s true.” You try a new position on the balcony, one that angles your bloated body towards Kim. He does not react. “How long are you going to stay here?”

“...I would like to remain later than usual, in case that call comes in.” Smoke rises in the air. “It is good to be prepared.”

“Then I’ll stay too.” You don’t have anything to do at home, anyways.

The two of you remain there in comfortable silence for several minutes, until Kim speaks. “Have you heard anything about Officer Vicquemare, lately?”

“Only a little.” You pick at the bandage on your arm. “Judit and Trant visited his apartment once, but he didn’t answer the door. He’s been picking up his mail though, so he’s in there somewhere. Gottlieb also got a message from his pharmacist that he’s late to pick up his meds.”

“I see.” The Lieutenant listlessly fiddles with a corner in his notebook; it’s flipped to the page about the dark-haired man. He stubs out his cigarette on his boot, then goes back inside. You follow.

. . .

**Jean-Heron Vicquemare**

You ran out of alcohol this morning. All that’s left is the suffocating silence of your home, made only worse by the absence of your meds, the only accompaniment the labored thudding of your heart. You cough into your mattress. Everything is sharper, clearer, edges cutting into mutilated brain tissue with each pound of your hangover. You *feel* things more often. It fucking sucks. You also haven’t seen the shitkid in days. He’s probably fucking dead.

You fumble on your nightstand, searching for the water bottle there. You accidentally knock it over; liquid spills on the carpet below. You don’t move to clean it up.

Judit and Trant came by yesterday. They left after ten minutes of knocking and calling your name. When you checked outside, after disappointed footsteps had long disappeared down the stairwell, a giant pot of chicken noodle soup was cooling on your doormat, alongside a plate piled high with peanut butter cookies. A note with Trant’s handwriting reading “Take care, Jean. Call us when you can!” was stuck to the clear plastic covering the baked goods. You stood there, hand on door frame, staring at the food for who knows how long. 

It tasted wonderful, as always.

It’s 22:09. You swing your legs over the edge of the bed, prepare yourself, then stand up. You need to take care of yourself. If you break routine now, you’ll never do it again. The pot of soup sits on the kitchen counter. You heat some of it up on the stove then mechanically shovel it into your mouth. Showering is next; the water is cold, the soap cheap. At least the water pressure is good. You trim your beard a bit, then brush your teeth. You change into a fresh white shirt and navy blue sweatpants, then head back to the bedroom.

As you approach your bed, the phone in the kitchen begins ringing behind you. Most likely Heidelstam, though it’s a bit late at night. You sigh, then pad back down the hallway until you reach the receiver. A click, a buzz, and then a voice speaks.

You receive the message, slam the receiver back on the phonebox, and sprint out the door, only pausing to throw on a jacket and your boots.


	4. Feux

**Jean-Heron Vicquemare**

You pay the driver extra to get you there faster. Wheels skid on pavement as you arrive a street away. You burst out and run towards your destination, shoes echoing off of cobblestone. You distantly hear a crowd of people, some yelling, some not, from that direction.

Neon pink light. The _Mien_ shines like a beacon in front of you, front windows shattered outward, dark glass littering the front. There. It’s Kostas, behind the bar, clutching the phone, face bloodied and bruised. Andrus menaces over him, surrounded by a gang of muscled thugs, scaring the patrons into submission.

Kostas notices you first. He’s crying, distress warping his injured face. A murmur goes up in the crowd as you tread closer and closer, until you’re at the broken front door. Andrus calls out, hand clenched on Kostas’s forearm.

“So,” he snarls, derision dripping from every syllable. “You actually came.”

You just glower at him. You try to ignore how hard Kostas trembles in his grip. Fuck, you don’t have your gun. You left it at the station when Pryce kicked you out for a week. All you have on you is a lighter, a couple of spare coins, and a few cigarettes.

“Come in, or I’ll hurt him more,” he says. You stiffly nod, then cross the threshold into the building. 

It’s unbearably warm in here, fear making the room claustrophobic. The crowd parts as you approach the bar. Kostas shakes his head, in denial of something. Maybe it’s an apology. You reach the counter.

“What do you want,” you level out, keeping your voice flat. You won’t help things by being angry.

Andrus roars with laughter. You wait for him to finish. He lets go of Kostas and slams both hands on the counter. You don’t flinch. “I want you,” he growls lowly, “to be fucking *humiliated.*” He marches around the bar until he’s breathing down your neck. You’re still as stone, spine straight: steel rebar among concrete. He picks up a bottle of whiskey and pours it over your head. You don’t move; amber liquid drips down your nose, soaking you head to toe. It smells like cask-strength. “God, you’re such a fucking pussy.” Andrus’s buddies chuckle. 

Kostas begins edging towards the phone box. Andrus notices. “Stay right where you fucking are or I swear to god I’ll fucking kill you,” Andrus barks. Kostas freezes, eyes darting between you and Andrus. What Andrus doesn’t notice, however, is him slowly reaching behind him for the bottle of high-proof Graad rum on the first shelf… for what? He can’t overpower them with a bottle of alcohol.

“So,” Andrus snickers gleefully. “What should I do to you?”

“...Why don’t we take this outside.” There are too many civilians in the bar. Also, you don’t want to fuck the _Mien_ up further than it already is. 

He slams the empty bottle on the table. It doesn’t break. He drops it on the floor. “You think you can ask me to do anything?” He throws up his hands. “But fine, we’ll have more space to fuck you up. Let’s go.” He turns to one of the men. “Victor, make sure the bartender doesn’t do anything stupid, like call the fucking cops.” The man nods, then goes to stand beside Kostas.

You, Andrus, and four out of the seven of his gang walk out of the _Mien_ , glass crunching beneath heavy feet. They surround you. You notice with some satisfaction that Andrus protects himself behind some of his guys, despite his posturing. 

You roll your shoulders. Four built men, not including Andrus, against one. Absolutely terrible odds. You sigh. You are going to fucking die. You don’t even have a fucking weapon. You flex your fingers; they thrum with adrenaline. 

“Here’s what’s going to happen. We—”

“Your shitty mob is gonna beat the crap out of me, while you hang back because you’re a fucking coward,” you sneer. You stretch your calves. Whiskey drips off of your pant leg. “I know how this fucking goes. 

They look amongst each other, snickering, only a hint of hesitation in their eyes. You’re on the right track, but you haven’t pushed them enough. Think. What would Harry do?

You nod to the crowd gathered at the window inside, tension painting their faces. Their eyes lock on you, the underdog. “They’re watching us. You think anything’ll change if you beat me with these odds?” You raise your voice, hopefully enough for your audience to hear you. “You look fucking *insecure* right now.”

You hit it right on the money. Andrus’s eyes widen and dart to and from the murmuring crowd at the windows, then fury alights on his ugly fucking mug. Good, that’ll make him brash, easier to fight, assuming he joins in. Andrus clicks his tongue, and they all wordlessly approach. You take a stance. You can fucking do this. You are also gonna *fucking die.*

Your gambit worked; they’re coming in one by one. First up, short pale-skinned man, heavily muscled, low center of gravity. He looks like a tough nut to crack; you can’t simply trip him like with Andrus. A defensive fighter, by the looks of it. You don’t have the time to wear him down; you’re going to have to watch extra close for any openings in his armor. He waits for you to throw the first punch.

You don’t. After several seconds, the man gets impatient. It seems he’s not a very good brawler, after all. As soon as he draws back a fist, you jab him in the lower right jaw, lighting fast, prioritizing speed over strength. He chokes and staggers back. You cock your head, and wait for him to reattempt his approach.

Behind, stomping footsteps— You lurch to the side, barely managing to dodge the lunge of a tall, burly, older man, slight salt and pepper dotting his messy beard. Less muscle and more mass. He goes for a second grabbing motion.

This one is easy. As he runs towards you, at the last second you step to the side and hold out a sturdy leg. When he trips, you stomp, once, on his head. It cracks against the ground. He doesn't get up.

The audience begins to stir. Hopeful murmurs spread, one man at a time. The three brutes inside the _Mien_ begin to shift uncomfortably.

The short man approaches again, this time guard doubled. He won’t fall to impatience this time. You test him out with a kick. He remains upright. Fuck it. You throw a heavy punch. He blocks it, wincing. You kick his shin, hard. Something rigid gives way against your foot. Good thing you wore steel tipped boots, because the man stumbles from the pain. An elbow to the side of the face, and then lights out.

That does it. You were the fucking scapegoat, and you just fucking beat up two men without taking a single hit. Inside the bar, someone throws a punch, you don’t know who, and suddenly the three bastards inside the _Mien_ are up against all the patrons within. You hear Kostas’s feral scream then the sound of a smashing bottle.

You’re sweating, weary breaths coming in and out. Your head pounds from the alcohol withdrawal. Fuck, this is taking too long.

“SHIT,” Andrus yells, seeing the situation deteriorate before him. Crazed eyes turn towards you. They burn with hatred. “Fuck it, let’s all fucking rush him.”

The remaining three, including Andrus now, run at you. Fuck! You dodge the first hit, then stumble. One of the men kicks you right in the solar plexus. You don’t fall over, but that’s all you can do as all the air is violently propelled from your lungs. You’re light headed. Shit—

A dull slam that sends lights spinning; the second man punches you in the cheek. You wildly flail and land a lucky uppercut to his jaw. He falls over, unconscious, and suddenly you’re on your ass, broken glass cutting into your palms. Fuck, you can’t be on the ground—

A kick to your ribs; reinforced leather. Andrus howls derangedly as he slams into your fucking chest. You really can’t breath now. Your heart pounds in your ears, drowning out the sound of the bar fight behind you.

You scramble backwards, towards the neon pink sign. Andrus stands straight, wipes a hand across his mouth. His remaining friend situates himself beside him.

Andrus smirks. “I’m going to fucking kill you.”

“ _MYO_ , CATCH! AND GET YOUR FUCKING LIGHTER OUT!” Something heavy rolls into your right hand at high velocity, bruising your knuckles. You grab it. You mindlessly shoot your left hand into your jacket pocket and flick open your lighter.

It’s the bottle of high-proof Graad rum. Alcohol content 76%. And it has that light blue handkerchief you gave Kostas on the first day stuffed into its top. Andrus runs towards you, face twisted in terror, arm outstretched.

You can use this as a bargaining—

It’s already in the air, aflame. It delicately whirls, once, its interim beauty shining under the intersection of neon pink and inferno, then shatters with a deafening bang at Andrus’s feet. He is only a meter away.

Flame roars outward from the epicenter; the heat hits you first, then the sharp, sweet stench of alcohol vaporizing, then literal, *burning* pain. The whiskey on your left pants leg has caught on fire.

Screaming. Both yours and Andrus’s.

“HOLY FUCKING SHIT!” You would roll but the ground is covered in fucking glass. You throw off your jacket and frantically wrap your leg in it, trying to cut off oxygen. The jacket lights on fire. Fuck! You throw it aside.

Andrus continues to shriek, voice hoarse. You look up, despite yourself. The flames are mesmerizing, flickering incandescent off of boiling skin and melting fabric, blood running free and instantly drying against charred chunks of muscles and flesh. The bar fight has stopped. You all watch, frozen, at the man immolating before your eyes. 

His voice cuts off. He falls over. His mouth is open but nothing comes out. He’s still twitching underneath the holocaust of heat ravaging his frame, tendons convulsing, eyes sealed shut by dissolved eyelids, skin melding into sacred tissue, welding into terrible bone.

You’re still on fucking fire. Fuck it, you roll in the glass. A yell for help from the bar, then suddenly you're doused in half-frozen water. Footsteps: running away. That’s the remaining three of Andrus’s gang.

“Дерьмо́!” Kostas stands over you, a metal pail used to cool drinks in his hand. “Fuck!” He crouches beside you, glass crunching beneath his feet. His hands tremble as they approach the ruined mess of charred flesh comprising your left leg. You’re shaking. Dots line your vision. Your heart is beating slower… slower. God, you’re so fucking tired.

“Someone! Help me carry him inside!” Suddenly you feel the hands of multiple men hauling you up from the ground, glass that was sticking to your back clattering on the stone. The sound of someone sweeping away debris onto the floor. You’re deposited on top of the recently cleared bar. 

“Holy fucking shit, _Myo_. Oh my god.” Kostas covers his bloody mouth. He snaps to attention. “We need to call—”

You manage to reach and grab his shoulder. He freezes. You cough. Blood lands on your shoulder, from the bite inside of your mouth. “...No.” You try to sit up, but are furiously pushed down by the men by your side. “You can’t call the RCM.”

“You’re fucking—” He loses his words in frusturation and begins to gingerly peel off scorched fabric from your leg, cutting at it with a pair of shears. You grit your teeth, breath coming in short, painful gasps. Finished, he turns to everyone else. “Leave. I’m sure you do not want to be found here by the police.” The men nod. Kostas is right; for many of them, being found in a homo-sexual bar is a death sentence. Moreover, the RCM would likely pin the blame on all of them, citing innate moral degeneracy.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Kostas hisses. He rushes into the backroom and comes back with several bottled waters. He pours them over your leg. You try not to scream. He brings out a short stool and props your injured limb on top of it. He yells at one of the few men remaining in the bar. “Call the RCM for me!” 

“NO!” you roar. “You can’t. Please. I’ll be fine.” But a Semenese man has already dialed the number and begins listing off the address. You pick up a piece of ice and throw it at him. He turns. “Put the receiver down. Leave,” you growl, as menacing as you can. He does so, intimidated by the half-crazed, half-dead man before him. 

“Dolores fucking Dei, _Myo_. What the fuck?!” Kostas is too busy treating your wounds. He runs into the backroom again and emerges with a pair of tweezers. Thankfully, the shards of glass are large. He removes them one by one, then takes out a long, clean washcloth from beneath the counter, soaks it in water, and presses it into your leg. You try to suppress a cry. You fail.

“I don’t have anything for the bruises.” He hears your short breaths. He pales. “...Did he break your ribs?” Panic climbs in his voice.

“I don’t think so.” You try to take a deep breath. Your lungs refuse to do so. “They’re definitely fucking cracked though.”

“Okay, okay. Fuck. Okay.” Kostas picks up the tweezers again and begins removing bits of glass all over your body. “Turn over, _Myo_.” God, you’re gonna have so many new scars, all over your fucking body. 

A twinge of pain, more so than usual, shoots up your arm. Kostas gasps. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” You look up at him. He’s crying; his hands quake. 

God, you’re so *fucking* tired. “...It’s fine, Kostas.”

“Shut the fuck up, _Myo_.” Kostas clenches his hand in a fist, then releases it. It stills considerably. He gets back to work. “It’s not fucking fine. You’re fucking here because of me.”

“...How did you get my phone number?” It’s getting harder to stay awake.

“Your flask. It has it engraved onto the bottom.” You remember. Judit gifted it to you on your birthday. “I— I didn’t want to call but Andrus said if I couldn’t—”

“I get it, Kostas.” The bar is finally empty. 

“...Why did you come? I—I thought you hated me.” Kostas checks on your leg again. Winces. He notices your eyes closing. He cups your face and shakes it gently. “Stay awake. You have to stay awake.”

You ignore his question. “Why are you taking such good care of me?”

“Fucking hell, _Myo_.” Kostas looks endlessly sad. “Because I care about you, you fucking idiot. I fucked it all up last time; I thought I’d never see you again, and I fucking deserved it.” He accidentally brushes into your leg. Pain shocks you into full consciousness. “Fuck, sorry.” He’s still holding your head, gazing into your eyes. 

“So Hayes— he wasn’t—”

“No. I don’t think you can fucking trust me again,” he tears up. “But I— I really thought that I could— I didn’t think he was something so painful to you.” He’s blubbering now. “I never should’ve—” A hiccup wracks his body. “I should’ve known. I should not have interfered with your life.” A tear drips onto your cheek. He gently wipes it away with a thumb. “I’m so sorry,” he hoarsely whispers. He whispers it over and over again.

You consider the bartender. Harry used to cry, apologizing, a lifetime ago, when you used to lie in Gottlieb’s office, another wound sustained because of him. But Kostas — it’s different. You cover his left hand with yours. It freezes.

“I— I believe you, Kostas.” He stares at you. “And I forgive you.”

He looks as if you have granted him every divine prayer he’s had since he was a boy. Harry didn’t look like that; he took the apology into stride, minimized it, treated it as if it were the only possible result. Kostas, though, he begins bawling again.

He leans down and gives you a chaste kiss on your forehead, as if in prayer. “Thank you, monsieur. Oh god, thank you.” The tender touch steals the breath from your exhausted lungs. Your mind blanks.

The faint sound of police sirens comes through the broken windows. You startle to attention. “Fuck.” Standard police procedure. If an address is given and then cut off suddenly, the RCM is required to go check it out. “Shit, hide me in the back room.”

“Why are you so afraid of the RCM?” He still hoists you up, and the two of you stumble towards the door.

“I can’t be seen by them.”

“ _Myo_ , you need a fucking ambulance. I’m sure we can convince them to not log you into the system.”

“No, no. It’s not that. It’s something else.” You grunt as you take another step. Your left leg is beginning to burn even more ferociously than before; the adrenaline has worn off. Your heart beats unsteadily in your aching chest.

“Okay. Fine. I’ll go deal with them.” You and Kostas practically fall into the next room. He lowers you as gently as possible on the wall. “You will let me drive you to the hospital, afterwards, though.”

“...Alright.” He quickly procures a blanket, the same blue blanket from that night, and wraps it around your shoulders. You try to not get blood on it. You fail. He leaves you alone.

You hear a Coupris Kineema stop in front of the _Mien_. It is all very muffled; it’s through two walls and you’re about to fucking pass out. You think you hear one? — no two — footsteps exit the vehicle. Kostas greets them. One of them yells, “What the hell happened here, Kostas?!”

Wait.

You can hear them better as they approach the door. “...Mr. Kostas, you are very hurt. Let me get the first aid kit.” Sharp boot clicks across glass. Precise. Polished. The Kineema door opens, then shuts. The footsteps come back. 

What the fuck. Just your fucking luck.

That’s Kim goddamn Kitsuragi and Harry FUCKING Du Bois.

“Shit,” you hiss. Knowing the shitkid, he’s gonna come into the back room one way or another, looking for “adventure.” You try to stand, but halfway up, you fall over. The thump echoes throughout the room.

“What was that?” Harry asks.

“It’s nothing, monsieurs. I’m sure something fell over. Let’s talk about this outside.”

“Wait, Mr. Kostas.” The sound of several chairs scraping against the floor. “Please sit. We can ask you what happened after we have treated your wounds.”

Good, that’ll buy you some time. If you can’t stand, you’re going to have to crawl. You drag your useless fucking left leg behind you, slowly approaching the back door. The blanket falls off your shoulders. You reach the exit just as you hear Kitsuragi finish up with Kostas. 

“The men lying on the floor were all part of Andrus’s gang.” Kostas hesitates. “...And the burned man outside was Andrus.”

“Wow,” followed by a low whistle. Fucking Harry. Fucking shit at reacting like a normal human being. You try to grab the handle from the floor; it slips out of your trembling hands.

“Yes, wow,” Kostas deadpans. “I suggest you handcuff these men before they wake.”

“Yes, I’ll go do that,” the Lieutenant says. “Detective.” You imagine he nods to the shitkid.

“Yep, got it. Questions.” There we fucking go. “So, can you give me a rundown of what happened here?”

. . .

**Harrier Du Bois**

“What do you think, officer. Andrus came back and trashed the _Mien_.” Kostas carefully inspects you, just like the first time he met you, but this time something clicks in his head. He leans back on his chair, thoughtful.

“Except he’s dead now. And like, half of his gang are unconscious on the ground,” you say. You hear the snap of handcuffs behind you.

“Yes.” The bartender fumbles in his vest and pulls out a pack. “Do you mind?”

“No, go ahead.” Kostas sticks a dented cigarette in his mouth, then silently asks you, with a deft hand motion, if you have a lighter. You acquiesce.

He takes a drag. “Andrus is dead because I burned him alive with my finest bottle of Graad rum.”

He seems only marginally regretful about the expensive booze. More importantly, there is a lie in that sentence—he’s not small, but he isn’t large, either. By far not large enough to cause the wreckage back there. “I’m sure you didn’t fight all these men yourself. Who knocked those fuckers out?”

“The patrons in the bar, when the violence got too much, fought back.” He smiles grimly. This is not a lie.

You study the man. Bruises mottle his fair face. He stiffly inhales another lung full of smoke. A noise from the back room, again, almost imperceptible. He winces, slightly. He is looking *too* straight ahead, as if encouraging you to not look at the back door. He catches your eyes wandering and speaks up again. To distract you.

“There is not much else. I trust that I will not be punished for my actions, since they attacked first.” He nods. “The other men who were here this night can attest to that, trusted that you do not record their names in that ledger of yours.”

“Where are they, by the way?”

Kostas grimaces. “...A homo-sexual often has to live two lives, one in the ‘regular’ world and another that is true to themselves. If they were found by unsympathetic police — well.” He taps the ash off of his cigarette. “Those worlds may converge together in highly unpleasant ways. Still, if you ask around, the locals will confirm I acted in self defense.”

You have an idea. “...Alright. We’ll come back tomorrow to ask around.” He nods. He seems relieved. You stand and call out to Kim. “Do you think it’ll take multiple trips to haul all these guys to the precinct?”

“The Kineema can only fit a maximum of four bodies, detective,” Kim calls back. “We will have to make two trips.”

“Okay. We’ll be super leaving now. We first need to clean things up by the car, though. Is that fine with you Kostas?”

“Take all the time you need, monsieur.” He seems eager for you to leave.

“Alright! We are going! Bye!” You hurry out of the bar. The Lieutenant finishes up handcuffing the unconscious men to various pieces of railing. “Kim,” you hiss. “We are not leaving. We are pretending to leave.”

“...Why.”

“Kostas is hiding something in the back room. Look, he’s heading over there now.” The Lieutenant looks and confirms your statement. “When he goes in, let’s sneak in and find out what he’s doing.”

“...Is this really necessary.”

“Yes.”

“Very well, detective” he sighs. “You have been right before.” The two of you enter the Kineema and wait. As soon as the navy vest disappears behind the door, you silently exit the vehicle and tiptoe back in. Kim walks normally, though he takes care to step around the glass. You slide two glasses out from under the counter and hand one to Kim. Once you are at the storage door, you press your cup against the wood, then put your ear against the bottom of the glass. Kim is reluctant, but soon follows your lead.

The two of you settle down, and prepare to find out what Kostas is hiding.


	5. Prière

**Jean-Heron Vicquemare**

You can barely move, now. Kostas, as soon as he spots you slumped against the back door, hastily closes the entryway to the bar and dashes to your side. A streak of your own blood paints the floor.

“ _Myo,_ ” he sighs. “What the fuck are you doing?”

You swallow clumsily. “...Kostas, could you help me get through this door?”

“Yes, monsieur.” Kostas lifts you up, opens the back door, and drags you out. “We need to get you to a hospital.” He closes the door behind you two.

“No, no. I— these wounds don’t need *immediate* attention.” That is debatable. You ignore that thought. “If they see your car leaving, or if you disappear suddenly, they might follow you. We have to wait until they’re gone.”

“...Fine.” Kostas grabs the fallen blanket and wraps you in it again, tighter. “I think I have some bandages, let me find them.”

“Okay.” You wait. He comes back with a tiny roll of gauze, and begins wrapping it around the deeper cuts after washing them with water. Your leg smarts in the cool air night air. Rough concrete sweeps against disfigured skin. You wince.

Kostas settles down next to you, as soon as he finishes. He leans in wordlessly. You let him.

“...How much do you think repairs will cost,” you ask. You hear several thumps from the bar. The bastards are likely hauling the bodies back to the Kineema.

. . .

**Harrier Du Bois**

...No, it can’t be. It *can’t* be. Kim stares at you, gauging your reaction. You smile shakily at him. “No, it can’t be,” you murmur. “It has to be someone else.” The Lieutenant doesn’t answer; both of you recognized that low, gravelly Revacholian accent. 

The two voices have moved farther away, most likely through a back exit. You shakily turn the door handle and enter. Kim follows.

. . .

**Jean-Heron Vicquemare**

Kostas snickers sarcastically. His laughter vibrates from his chest into your shoulder. “Monsieur, the _Mien_ is ruined. I cannot possibly pay for all of that.”

“Ah. I see.” Kostas offers you a cigarette. You accept. Kostas lights both of yours with a lighter he found in the back room. “What will you do now?”

“Well,” he takes a deep drag. “I suppose what I did before: work in a Frittte by day, and entertain drunk men at night.”

You nod. This does not surprise you. You shift until Kostas is more comfortably settled on your shoulder. He grins in appreciation. 

“That night,” you begin. “That night when I left, I was going to tell you about him.”

“Yes, you were.” Kostas inhales. “I do not need to know, monsieur. It was foolish of me to push you that night.”

“Maybe.” The smoke is sweet, but you barely breathe in. Your ribs still hurt. “Still, I would like to tell you now.”

Kostas considers you. “...Why?”

You sigh. “I think I’m ready, after tonight.” Who else would you talk about him to, anyways?

“First, monsieur. I want to know something else.” You can feel him breathe through the blanket. “Why did you throw the rum?”

“...What?”

“You could’ve — I don’t know — used it to threaten Andrus. I didn’t expect you to actually blow him up. With you in the blast, no less.”

“Oh.” You tap the cigarette. “I thought about that, too.”

“Then why?”

You remember, back when Harry was your partner, your coworkers would always… well. Harry was the eccentric hero of Precinct 41. You were his damage control. People tended to gawk at the half-naked supercop instead of you.

But you’re not on Harry-sitting duty anymore; Kitsuragi has taken care of that. You don’t have to be *reasonable,* constantly trying to compensate for the shitkid’s crazy fucking behavior. Besides, who the hell cares what the fuck you do anymore.

“...It was a long time coming,” you say. Kostas frowns. That was cryptic as hell and you know it. “Anyways, about him.”

“Yes.” Kostas sobers. “About him.”

“...As said, he died two months ago.” You exhale through your nose. “...You should’ve seen him, when he worked. He was damn good at what he did. Unconventional as hell, drove me fucking insane, but still, batshit brilliant.” Another drag. You tap the ashes off, shakily. The memories that hurt the least – you can talk about those. “When we rode together, he would listen to disco on the radio — what was it, OO? — and nothing else. Just, on loop. Over and over. He might’ve done it to annoy me, now that I think about it… no. He loved those songs, that’s why I let him play them.” 

Sunlight on the dashboard, the radio turned to max, windows down, wind blowing in your hair. He glances in your direction, lips parted, joyous, not from alcohol or drugs, but from music. The sun turns brown strands golden, framing his face in a painfully radiant ring of light. “The songs themselves were godawful but… I liked them when he was the one singing.” You grunt. “Hm, that’s not really relevant, is it?”

. . .

**Harrier Du Bois**

Kim gapes at you, alarmed, more so than you have ever seen before. He’s realized something you haven’t. 

You’re pretty sure you aren’t dead. He can’t be talking about you.

Kim mouths “We should not be hearing this,” silently. He tries to pull you away. Something keeps you there, however. Something you need to know. The voices in your head scream at you to leave, to forget again. 

You stay, shaking off his quivering fingers.

. . .

**Jean-Heron Vicquemare**

“No, no. Tell me about it.” Kostas shifts a bit closer. You can smell the smoke on his breath.

“When I met him—” Your gut twists. Fuck, you can’t do this. Try again. “When I—” Deep breath; stop shaking. Again—

Kostas waits patiently for you to compress your shit. The embers of your cigarette glow, and you watch them pulse and fade into the air, disintegrating into the atmosphere, rising above, looking down at you with unending grace. You’re a tiny little man, hunched in front of a tiny little bar, trying not to cry over another tiny man so small you can’t see him—so small he may as well not exist.

You know how to continue.

“When I met him, he was already deep in the bottle. Amphetamines, too. He— He would come to work blitzed out of his fucking mind. And everyone loved it—yeah, he was *fun* and *cool,*” you hiss bitterly. “But I’m the one who wiped the puke from the corners of his mouth. I’m the idiot that cleaned up after his stupid, reckless ass.” The edge in your voice grows cold and echoes back at you from far away. “When you call someone a crazy motherfucker, everyone nods and laughs. They think you mean he’s fun at parties, or some shit like that. Maybe he’s a champion at shots. But he—he was *actually* insane. Talked to his fucking tie, like it was a real person.” You take a drag, going through the motions, but you can’t feel smoke entering your lungs. You’re already far away. “The man was irretrievably fucked in the head. Couldn’t even get over his ex for six years.”

You’re saying what you’ve wanted to say for the past half a decade and it feels like nothing. Like nothing at all. You feel as if you’re staring at yourself in the morgue, cataloguing injuries on top of a cold, steel slab. Grow colder, and continue.

You trace the white scars on your arms. “It’s a fucking joke in my workplace. Ninety percent of this shit is because of him, and everyone knows it—they love him for it.” 

Kostas stares, horrified. Something clicks in your head.

“Oh, wait. No. No, it wasn’t like that. It was indirect. He didn’t—” But that’s not true, is it? Fuck. “...He hurt me a couple of times. Only when he was fucking wasted, though, to the point he couldn’t recognize my fucking face.” You remember the slash of a broken Commodore Red, swung in a fit of wild rage at the world, then pain. You don’t mention how often it happened.

You’ve done nothing to assuage the awful expression on Kostas’s face.

. . .

**Harrier Du Bois**

NO.

He’s definitely fucking talking about you, but— You can’t have— No, you couldn’t— *that* to Jean? NO. That doesn’t— 

But it makes perfect sense, doesn’t it? A voice snarls in your head. This is what you wanted, Harry-boy, what you ignored us to fucking learn. Great fucking job. You distantly feel yourself breathing faster, your heart is beating painfully fast, caged in your ribs.

That’s why Jean didn’t believe Kim when he said he hit his head on the Kineema door. That’s why Gottlieb cornered you in his office. He thought—

A crushing sensation on your left pinky. You snap out of it. Kim is holding your hand — they’re warm — bending and twisting your tiniest finger. He peers into your eyes.

You don’t know what to do.

. . .

**Jean-Heron Vicquemare**

“Uhm…” A hybrid of a choke and a laugh escapes your throat. You falter. Something wet drips down your face—are you bleeding? No, it’s something else. Kostas silently hands you the handkerchief you gave him the first day you met. You don’t feel anything, so why are you crying? You crumple it against your cheek. The wind bends and gently sweeps across your face, as if to wipe away a tear. Your voice gives out on you. “Sorry,” you whisper.

“You have nothing to apologize for.” Anger simmers in his voice, though you are not sure at what. “God, that must have been hell.”

“No, he had it worse. I think—I think I was the only thing keeping him alive. He was like... “ You’ve been thinking about this for a while, now, cataloguing the things in your life by their proximity to him. “The shitkid was the dying sun. And I begged him to let me die with him.”

Kostas doesn’t speak. 

Dusk had fallen long ago, final yellow light brimming at the edges of the earth, melting into sodium. “He was such a fucking asshole, you know. He was a racist, a sexist piece of shit; he didn’t even know what homo-sexuality was, but still called people f****ts. Loosest lips in the pre—in the building, too. You couldn’t trust him with jackshit, I mean what kind of fucking—” You stop. Something drips from your chin, and in the distance, you hear your own voice break. But you don’t care, because you’re miles above your own body.

And when you’re ready, you continue, calm and low. You take a drag. “And then, one day, I finally listen when he tells me to fuck off. So I go. And... he dies.” No breath enters or exits through your body. “I could’ve saved him, if—” You force your lungs to expand. It hurts, distantly. “...It doesn’t matter now. None of this fucking matters. I kept waiting for him to take me with him, but he never did.” 

You smile at the sky. Tears, warm and heavy, gush down your cheeks. “Isn’t that the most pathetic shit you ever heard?”

“No, _Myo,_ you—”

Your mouth moves on its own. “Look up, Kostas. The stars change every night, and no one ever notices. He’s gone now, I’m still here, and the world has stepped over his fucking body and kept right on dancing.” Ash twirls in the wind. “It’s what it’s supposed to do. But I—” Your breath hitches. “But I c—” Wet sobs interrupt your sentence. You mind slams right back into your body, and you’re horribly aware again: of the hotness of your face and the crushing pressure in your chest, straining against the erratic spasms of your lungs. Pain rebounding all over your body. Tears blur the streetlights into bisecting stars. “I can’t do that,” you say. “I-I see his face every day. At work, our favorite bars, even the… the old smoke spots we’d run off to.” You remember how you looked forward to those moments, bent over the same lighter, when you could count the individual eyelashes curling over the flame a sliver of shadow away. 

“He *haunts* me. I can’t do it. I can’t.”

Kostas places a hand on your back and waits with you. You wheeze and pound your chest, willing the pain to distract you. God, you haven’t cried since— you don’t even fucking remember.

“If only I fucking stayed,” you whisper. “If only—” you start trembling again. “The shitkid would still—” 

Kostas wraps his arms around you. You let him. Human warmth seeps through the blanket. When was the last time someone even fucking touched you, not to harm or to clinically bind you together in twine and gauze? 

Once, ages ago. You and Harry standing in sunlight, waiting for the ambulance to arrive. He wraps an arm around your waist, hand warm from the blood dripping down his arm.

You close your eyes. It is only an impression of a memory, now, of a man long gone.

. . .

**Harrier Du Bois**

“...Harry.” You stare at the closed door. “Harry!” Kim hisses. No, you can’t. You can’t look at him. Calloused fingers grip your chin and yank your face in his direction. “*Officer,* we have to go.”

You stumble back. God, you can’t be close to him. You— you hurt Jean. He’s fucking crying a flimsy door away because of you. He never cries… but then again, you don’t know enough about him to say this, do you? You fucking— you forgot everything. You don’t know anything about Jean, or what you did to him.

Something snaps in place. If Jean is here, then he was the one who beat up Andrus’s gang. And if he hasn’t left yet, it means he’s too hurt to fucking walk.

“Harry.” Desperation edges into Kim’s voice. He hauls you away, out the door behind you, into the bar. Your cups roll on the ground. “Harry, it— You’re not him anymore.”

You’re going to hurt Kim; you’ve worked with— with abusers, manipulators, people who beg for fourth and fifth chances— with pieces of fucking shit— and you know they don’t change.

“I—” You feel tears bubbling behind your eyes. You don’t fucking deserve to cry. “Kim, what if I am? I’m— you shouldn’t work with me anymore. What if I’m still the fucking same? What if I—”

“Harry,” Kim grits out. “You won’t.” He stops, grasps your shoulders, forces you to look him in the eyes. “I will make sure you do not, understand?”

God, he trusts you so much. You don’t deserve him. You wipe your face with the sleeve of your RCM Commander's coat. Okay, fuck. You can do this. He squeezes your shoulders reassuringly.

You gather yourself. Exhale once. He nods encouragingly. “Kim, we can’t leave. If Jean hasn’t left yet, it means he’s really hurt.”

He sighs. “I didn’t think of that. Okay. What is your plan of action, detective?”

“I don’t… I don’t think I can pretend I didn’t hear all of— all of that.”

Kim inclines his head in agreement. “Yes, I do not think I can do so either.”

“I think we just, knock? God, I don’t know.” You don’t know how you’ll react when you see him.

“I think that’s a good idea.” His spine straightens, ready for anything. “Should I do it?”

“No, I’ll do it.” You deserve it, for everything you’ve done.

. . .

**Jean-Heron Vicquemare**

After a while, Kostas shifts beside you. Something's brewing in that head of his. You can feel it. “ _Myo_ , I do not know how to ask this, but...” He sounds ominous. “Are you sure that the man you talked about is dead?”

“What?”

Before he can elaborate, three knocks sound on the door you’re leaning on. Right fucking there.

“Oh shit.”

Another three knocks, louder. Kostas sends you a furtive glance, but you’re already trying to stand, looking for escape routes. You stumble upright. The door isn’t locked; you see the doorknob turn—

Harry stands in the doorway. Kitsuragi is behind him. They stare. You stare. Everyone stares.

FU— Your leg gives out under you.

. . .

**Harrier Du Bois**

SHIT! You rush forward and catch the Satellite-Officer before he collapses on the ground. You feel dried blood flaking off the fabric under your fingers. He suppresses a scream as you knock into his left leg. You look down. His leg is fucking charred to a fucking crisp.

“HOLY FUCK JEAN.”

“GET THE FUCK OFF ME, YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE.” You comply as quickly as possible, trying to lower him as gently as possible on the pavement. He struggles out of your grip before you’re able to do so. “What— what the fuck—”

Kim stares at the bright red leg. “Officer, what—”

“Gendarmes, I will need you to leave.” Kostas holds a broken bottle in both his hands. It shakes in his grasp. “He doesn’t—”

“What the FUCK are you FUCKING doing here?!” He’s heaving, but not deep enough. You feel your face pale. Did he break his fucking ribs?

Apparently. the Lieutenant had the same thought. “Officer, are your ribs—”

“Back off!” Kostas shrieks. He brandishes his weapon. It flashes in the streetlight. 

“Wait, Kostas,” you stutter. “We know him.”

“Obviously, he doesn’t want to fucking see you,” The bartender hisses. He looks like he’s about ready to stab you.

“Wait, fuck. Kostas.” Jean pulls at Kostas’s pant leg, coughing, clutching his chest. He looks down in concern. In that moment, you lunge forward and knock the bottle out of the bartender’s hand. It goes spinning into the dark, shattering somewhere unseen. 

“Shit!” He stumbles back, raises trembling fists. “You can’t—”

“STOP.” Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi, veteran of the RCM, who earned every little bit of his position with painstaking effort, exercises his authority over the chaos. You, Kostas, and Jean freeze. You all look at him. He sighs. Coughs. “Khm. Let’s all calm down and *talk.*”

“Fuck,” you hear Jean wheeze. He rolls over on his side, trying to regain his breath. All the other men crouch beside him, including you. “No, no I’m—” He coughs blood into his hand. Kim startles beside you.

“Officer,” he says frantically, “Is that—”

“No, Kitsuragi, my organs aren’t fucking busted; if they were, I’d already be goddamn dead. I just bit my cheek. And before you ask if I broke my ribs, they’re just cracked or fractured.” The Lieutenant pulls a tired hand down his face and sighs in relief. Jean glares up at you two. ”How much did you fucking hear.”

“...All of it.” You fidget. A harsh shiver racks the man before you. He tries to wipe at his face, to hide the tear tracks. It’s too late, you’ve already seen them.

“God—” he chokes. “God. Fuck. I can’t believe this shit.” His voice is extra husky from the pain and grief.

Kostas speaks. “...So, _Myo_.” Kostas looks at you. He looks ready to pounce, ready tear out your throat with his fucking teeth, if he has to. “Is this the man that died two months ago? That fucking hit you?”

“Kostas,” Jean whispers. “I—”

A slap echoes through the night. Your right cheek stings only slightly, not for lack of trying. “You *bastard.* You were the one who hurt him. You piece of fucking shit.”

"Kostas, no," Jean's gaze flickers rapidly between the two of you. "It's alright. Stand down." His voice is eerily quiet, and from the fearful look in his sunken eyes, you realize it's meant to calm *you* down. You feel sick to your stomach.

“...Mr. Kostas.” Kim noticed too. “The reason ' _Myo'_ told you the detective died two months ago is because—”

“I lost my entire memory two months ago, from drinking so hard I literally forgot everything.” You keep your voice low, unthreatening.

Kostas stares at you, unbelieving. Jean sighs. “Yes, the shitkid literally forgot every single bit about himself two months ago.” You bring out your ledger and show Kostas the news clipping taped within it. His eyes grow wider and wider as his eyes flick through the article lines. “...He’s not— He’s not him.”

Kostas sits in shock. “... _Myo_ , when people say ‘I see him, everywhere I go,’ they usually mean metaphorically.”

Jean closes his eyes. “...No. I was being very literal.”

Kostas peers at you. He considers apologizing. He doesn’t. He turns back to Jean. “...So you are an officer of the RCM. What rank?” He laughs quietly, hysterically. “And what is your name, I’m dying to know.”

Kim speaks. “This here is Lieutenant Satellite-Officer Jean-Heron Vicquemare, second in command of Precinct 41’s Major Crimes Division.” 

Kostas whistles. “Precinct 41, huh. I’ve heard of them.” He smiles down at the injured man. “Nice to meet you, Officer Vicquemare.”

“...Call me Jean.”

“Jean,” you say. He winces. “I’m sor—”

“Shut the fuck up,” he snarls. “You don’t get to do this, not now—”

“Um, Kostas, Kim, could you give us some space?” The bartender simply glares at you. 

Kim shakes his head. “That does not seem like a good idea, detective.”

“Alright.” You turn back to Jean. Pained breaths escape into the night air. “Jean, I’m sorry.”

“Dolores fucking Dei—”

“I— I know that whatever I say doesn’t fix anything.” You sniff. You try not to cry. “I know it’s something that I can’t really apologize for. God, I don’t remember anything, that’s so fucked.” You wipe a hand against your face. It comes off wet. “But I— what I *can* apologize for is never noticing how I— how I made you feel after Martinaise. I just— god, I ignored you after that case. I abandoned you.” Kim shifts uncomfortably. He was also involved in this. “And I actively disregarded all the— all the fucking signs.” You chuckle dejectedly. “Did you know Gottlieb cornered me in his office, while you were on leave? He asked me ‘what the fuck did I do.’ I didn’t understand it then, but I do now.”

Jean just stares at you, transfixed. 

“I’m, uh. God. I shouldn’t have ignored you. That was selfish of me. I think my voices,” you gesture to the side of your head, “were trying to shield me away from you, so I could, I don’t know, live in ignorant bliss. And I listened, because that was comfortable for me. I never had to wonder about my past. God. I was fucked up, wasn’t I? By fucking Revachol.”

You’re crying freely now. “I— uh, I hurt you so bad. He hurt you so bad. I’m so sorry, Jean. You don’t have to forgive me; you shouldn’t. I— I can make sure you don’t see me as often; I’ll avoid the balcony from now on. Or— or I can ask Pryce for a transfer—”

A hand claps over your mouth. “Shut the fuck up, shitkid.” You do so. You wait for his response.

. . . 

**Jean-Heron Vicquemare**

You can feel fat tears dribbling over your fingers. They’re warm. You remove your hand.

“I—” you cough. Kostas steadies you with a hand on your shoulder. “...Harry.” 

“Um, yeah?” he says. Kitsuragi quietly places his hand on the shitkid’s lower back.

“You’re not him. You—” you sigh. “*He* used to apologize sometimes.” 

You laugh quietly. “He was a fucking asshole about it. Said he’d kill himself if I didn’t tell him it wasn’t his fault.” You look into his eyes. Blue, as you always remembered, but they’re kinder, somehow: less sharp and more like— a forget-me-not. “You’re not him. You fucking know it’s your fucking fault, and you admit to it. He never would’ve done that.”

You haul yourself up until you’re in a complete sitting position, instead of the strange half-lean as before. “What you did was fucked up. I’m sorry, Lieutenant, for getting you involved.” You nod at Kitsuragi. He nods back. “But you fucking off with a man you knew for barely a week was— that was an asshole fucking move.”

“...Yeah, it was.”

“God fucking damnit, Harry. Why is nothing ever simple with you.” You groan as your leg reminds you it got fucking burnt less than an hour ago. Kitsuragi wordlessly assesses the damage, fingers tapping his bent knees.

“...Sorry.”

“Yeah, well. You better fucking be. Goddamn fucking bastard,” you murmur. “But you know fucking what. You’re not him and that counts for something.” You glare at him, challenging him to interrupt. He doesn’t. “Apology fucking accepted, shitkid, for everything after Martinaise, not before. Never before. You’re a piece of shit but at least you can own up to it.”

Harry gawks at you, mouth ajar. He looks like he got fucking hit upside the head, fucking idiot. He suddenly lurches forward, pauses. “...Can I hug you?”

You sigh. Fuck it; you might as well get this shit over with. “Fine.”

The slobbering mess of a man, without delay, gathers you up and rams his drenched face into the base of your neck, taking special care to not jostle your left leg. Sobs wrack his thick frame, meaty arms squeezing you as if afraid you’d disappear, as if all of this would dissipate into a dream. You tiredly return the hug. He only weeps harder.

You close your eyes. You could imagine *him* instead of Harry in your arms, beard messier, eyes crueler: the one you— the one you goddamn loved, once upon a time, now half-gone, his fleshy husk occupied by a man that he could’ve been, maybe, if you had met him sooner. But you don’t think about that. You bury your nose into the black fabric of Harry’s coat and inhale. It smells like blood, sweat, and tears: like *him,* but without the alcohol, without the despair. Cleaner. Better.

It’s nice. You could get used to this.

. . .

Kostas dithers around as Kitsuragi and Harry lift you off of the ground and begin carrying you to the Kineema. Gottlieb should be at the station. He always is.

“...Are you gonna tell the 41st that I was at the _Mien_?”

Kostas glowers in Harry’s direction. The detective gulps. “No, we won’t. Right, Kim?”

“Correct, detective.” The Lieutenant opens the vehicle door. “Easy now.” You are gently pushed into the back row. “Mr. Kostas, we will send other officers to deal with these men.” 

Kostas nods. “Before you go, could I talk to him?” Kitsuragi and Harry move aside to let him through. The bartender’s face appears in your vision, leaning over you. “Hi, Jean.” You grunt. He smiles. “God, it’s still kind of weird calling you that, _Myo_.”

“You can still call me _Myo_ if you want.”

He giggles. “Yeah, I guess I can. Well, _Myo_ , take care of yourself, okay? Here’s my number.” He slips a piece of paper in your hand. “Call me whenever you want, monsieur. I can always make time for you.”

“...Okay.” You feel hazy. You’re fucking exhausted.

“And one more thing.” He leans down, pecks you on the cheek. Harry gasps behind him. “Just something to remember me by.”

You look at him. “...Gimme your hand.” Kostas raises an eyebrow but complies. You’re half dead, but manage to grab it. You feel as if you’re submerged in water. “Thank you,” you whisper, “for everything.” You press your mouth to the back of his palm. Harry gasps, louder. Kitsuragi quietly berates him.

“Oh my god, Jean,” Kostas giggles. “You’re tired out of your goddamn mind, aren’t you.” He gently extracts his hand. “Thank you, though you probably won’t remember any of this. Officers, go get this man some medical attention.” You dimly hear two pairs of footsteps climbing into the Kineema. The heavier of the two sets himself by your head, lifts it, and places it in his lap. The lighter one goes to the front. The keys jingle. The engine comes to life.

“Goodbye.” Kostas’s voice sounds like it’s coming from a dream. “Love you, _Myo_.”

You drift away with the calming sensation of a rough hand carding slowly through your hair.

. . .

**Kim Kitsuragi**

The drive to the precinct is silent. You go far slower than usual, to minimize any bumps in the road. It takes you around ten minutes to arrive. It is nearing midnight. You look in the rearview mirror. The detective is still stroking the Satellite-Officer’s hair. You suppress a smile. 

“Stay here, detective,” you say as you park. “I will go see if the Lazareth is in the building before we carry him in.”

He doesn’t look up. “Okay.” You exit the motor carriage, scan your ID at the front door, and approach Gottlieb’s office. Light shines from underneath the door. You knock. A moment later, it opens.

Gottlieb takes a moment to recognize you. “Ah, Lieutenant Kitsuragi. What are you doing here?”

You nod. “Satellite-Officer—”

“Fuck,” Gottlieb rushes back into his office and emerges with a stuffed black leather medical bag. “Okay, how bad is it.”

“...Pretty bad, but not immediately life-threatening.” Gottlieb sighs, coiled tension slipping out of his shoulders. “Harry and I will carry him in. Please prepare for cracked ribs, small lacerations all over his body, and second-degree burns on the lower left leg. Perhaps some third-degree, but it seems the fire was put out quickly enough and was mostly contained to the alcohol within the outer fabric of his pants leg.”

He thankfully doesn’t ask how all that happened. “The fucking idiot *would* manage to injure himself while on fucking leave.” Gottlieb opens a cabinet. “Do you need a stretcher?”

“Yes, that would be helpful.” Gottlieb pushes a large mass of accordioned metal and red fabric over to you. You drag it behind you as you leave the building.

Harry looks up as you arrive. “He’s here?”

“Yes.” You fold out the stretcher. The detective lifts the sleeping officer and tenderly lowers Vicquemare into the waiting fabric. The metal squeals as you push it into the station. 

Gottlieb is waiting for you, giant bottle of saline in hand. He motions where to roll the officer. “Dolores fucking Dei,” he says, snapping on a pair of medical grade rubber gloves. “Let’s hope he doesn't wake up for this.”

You and Harry watch as Gottlieb meticulously cleans the officer’s wounds, making you leave for half an hour to examine the injuries under his clothes. You take this time to notify available officers of the men still at the _Mien_. Kostas did quite a good job; only a few, small pieces of glass clink on the metal tray beside the bed. When you come back in, Vicquemare is dressed in a hospital gown, ruined clothes in the trash. The note with the phone number sits on the small table beside him. “He’s got bad bruising on his stomach, chest and ass. Nothing much to do but give him a salve when he wakes up.” 

Gottlieb motions to the officer’s chest. “Ran an MRI while you were out.” You raise an eyebrow, impressed; MRI scans tend to take over half an hour. You have no doubt however, that the Lazareth was very thorough. “Organs aren’t damaged but two of his ribs are a bit fractured. Should heal on their own, with the help of pain meds, as long as he stays fucking still for a month or so.” He sighs. “He won’t, but at least he heals fast.”

Next up is sewing the larger cuts. “I’ve given him some meds. He shouldn’t wake up.” There is an IV drip connected to Vicquemare. Gottlieb expertly threads a needle in one try. “Kitsuragi, come here.” He hands you a medicinal pad soaked in saline. “Clean away any extra blood that leaks out.” You nod and do so, watching with interest as Gottlieb skillfully draws the needle in and out, lines nice and orderly. He tightly bandages them afterwards.

“Alright, the fucking leg.” The lazareth has already cleaned the burns thoroughly, taking care around the cuts. He starts rubbing a white paste into the affected skin, making sure to not press too hard. The officer still grunts in his sleep. Gottlieb finishes up by dressing the leg, then gently setting it beside the other. He wipes the sweat from his brow and peels the dirtied gloves off his fingers. “Fucking hell.” Various medicinal tools clank in the tray beside him.

Harry has been silent this entire process — uncharacteristic of him. He finally speaks. “...Gottlieb, I know why you, uh, confronted me here earlier today.”

Gottlieb wearily pinches the bridge of his nose. “...There’s no fucking way he told you that voluntarily.”

You answer for your partner. “We overheard the officer as he told someone else.”

“God fucking damn it.” Gottlieb adjusts his glasses.

Harry’s voice trembles. “...How often did it happen?”

Gottlieb stalls, sanitizing his tools. “...When it was bad, two times a week. Sometimes more.” He glares at you. “You never fucking admitted to it, and if you did, you would fucking laugh it off, you piece of shit.”

There’s nothing either of you can say to that, so you don’t. Gottlieb flinches when Harry scoots his chair closer to Vicquemare’s bed. Something breaks within the detective. “I won’t—” the detective sighs. “I won’t touch him.”

“...Fine.” The Lazareth finishes cleaning. “Both of you are going to have to leave in a couple of minutes. I’m going home.”

Harry splutters. “What— we’re just gonna leave him here, alone?”

“Detective,” you say. “We will be back in the morning.”

“But—”

“Harry.” You emphasize the word, injecting it with authority. “We cannot stay here, tonight. The officer will be fine.”

The detective sniffs. “Okay, Kim. I trust you.”

Both of you stand after Gottlieb finishes cleaning up the office. “We’ll be going now, Lazareth.” Harry makes sure the blanket is snuggly tucked around Vicquemare.

“Yeah, you are.” Gottlieb swipes his wallet and keys from his desk. “Let’s go.”

You are last out the door. You look over your shoulder just as you flip the light switch; Jean’s face shines under the harsh overhead lamps, highlighting every crease, every pock mark, then click— it's lost in tender shadow. You close the door as gently as you can and silently, sincerely wish the officer goodnight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and the end! just a very short epilogue, after, and this fic is done!
> 
> Thank you all for reading and commenting! I love everything you guys say :)


	6. Épilogue

**Kim Kitsuragi**

You push your glasses up the bridge of your nose. It’s been a quiet day at the station, no new cases, just paperwork to fill out from previous ones. One more line and — that was the last of it. Your watch reads 18:32; later than you intended to stay. You stand and head to the balcony for your daily smoke. The detective is probably already there; he’s been gone for fifteen minutes.

The hallway is dimly lit. It has been three weeks since the incident at the _Mien_. Vicquemare was given another month of leave until he started coming back to the precinct on his own within a couple of days. At that point, Pryce simply gave him strict desk duty.

Minot passes by you. She seems happy, most likely at the thought of finally returning to her family for the day. You distantly hear McCoy loudly exit the precinct, heading to a bar with several other 41st officers while retelling one of his favorite cases to exasperated ears.

You reach the door and open it. On the far side Vicquemare and Harry are in the process of sharing a light. The former notices you and waves you over. His hair is a bit ruffled.

“C‘mere, Kitsuragi.” Jean offers you a cigarette. It’s an Astra; he’s started buying them just for you. You accept it. He uses his own stick to light yours, leaning into your face until the ends touch. You share a drag, together.

“Hey Kim, going home soon?” Harry breathes out a lungful of smoke.

“Yes, after I finish this.” You tap your cigarette.

The three of you lean on the railing, closer than need be, you sandwiched between the two larger men. “Have you called Mr. Kostas lately?” you ask.

“Yeah, I did yesterday.” Jean’s right elbow presses firmly into your left. You don’t comment. “Business is doing well.” He chuckles warmly. “Apparently, he’s really goddamn tired of all the men talking about that night. It only gets more inaccurate every time. The most recent version is that I beat up every single Andrus gang member without breaking a sweat, then proceeded to blow five of them up with an impromptu bomb. Still, it’s bringing in good money; he’ll be able to afford a bouncer within a week.”

“That’s good to hear.” Harry hums in agreement. Stars swirl above, nebulas intersecting in blueprints of celestial design, drawn up millenniums ago. They look down, cool, luminescent irises silently watching from high above. They seem… benevolent, today.

Harry rebalances himself on the fence, solid weight just scarcely resting against yours. “How’s the ribs, Jean?”

He grunts. “They feel fine, shitkid. Gottlieb forced me to do another MRI; seems like they’re basically healed over.” The detective nods, but still glances worriedly at the Satellite-Officer’s chest. Vicquemare’s eyes soften. “I’ll be okay, Harry. The Captain’s making me stay at the station all day, anyways.”

“Alright,” Harry murmurs.

Their faces are close enough to yours that you are sharing the very air between, breaths transferring from one pair of lungs to another, twinged with two different brands of cigarette smoke. You drink in the intertwined smell of sweat and soap, now familiar to you, engrained deep within your mind: something to pull out and covet when the lights above become callous instead of kind.

You smile. Jean notices and gazes, committing the posture of your lips to memory. Harry grins with you.

Things will be alright. You have them beside you, and they have you to help them, protect them. And you know they would do the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE END! Thank you all for reading this long ass fic! Had a lot of fun writing it with circopoi :)

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to circopoi (https://archiveofourown.org/users/cicadabug/pseuds/circopoi) for betaing throughout the process! Chapters will be posted every couple of days.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are appreciated :)


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